Negligence
by kokoda2007
Summary: Left alone by John and Dean, Sam learns that not all predators are supernatural. Pre-series, hurt Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural or the characters …

**Author's Note: **I can't give enough praise to Supernaturaldh, my awesome beta, who is responsible for working this chapter into shape. I do like to change, re-change and change again, so all remaining mistakes are my own.

**Summary:** Left alone by John and Dean, Sam learns that not all predators are supernatural. Pre-series (Sam aged 11, Dean 15), hurt Sam.

**Negligence **

by Kokoda2007

**-o-**

**Chapter 1**

Did he mean so little that nobody remembered? If he disappeared would everybody forget that he ever was. Sam wondered that sometimes, feeling like a voice that was never heard, a person that was scarcely seen.

He sat at the end of the bed, a long forgotten book cradled in his lap.

Looking across at his sleeping brother, he wondered briefly, would Dean remember, or should he remind him? He turned eleven today – it was his birthday. He sighed; eyes darting back down to the book. He doubted his older brother remembered what day of the week it was, let alone the actual date.

A single tear escaped and rolled slowly down his face. He recalled all the celebrations at school when it was some other kid's birthday. There'd be a cake brought in, singing, and cheering as the whole class joined together for the special day.

He'd never had a cake. He'd never been at one school long enough for friends to remember the important date. But that hadn't stopped him from joining in and enjoying the party, secretly hoping that one day that would be him.

He knew it was stupid to wish for something he could never have. To hope that one day, it would be him who everyone was happy to see, smiling at, and wishing the best day ever.

As his Dad said, he needed to get his head out of the clouds and quit daydreaming. He needed to focus on the bigger picture, the important things in life, and he would, as soon as he worked out exactly what they were and where he fit in.

He wiped away the tear. _He was eleven now, too old to cry._

**-o-**

By lunchtime he knew for sure that Dean had forgotten. At first, he'd hoped that maybe it was all some cruel prank that was being played on him. That maybe his brother was just riling him up before springing out a surprise. A present. Something. But as the hours ticked away and Dean continued in his melancholy mood, flicking between the channels on the old TV, he admitted the truth to himself. The one person he had trusted deep down to remember, hadn't.

Sam leapt off the bed. "Dean?"

"What?" Dean mumbled; his attention occupied with the TV.

"When's Dad coming back?" Sam moved to stand behind the couch, needing to do something to break up the boredom.

Dean turned and glared at his brother. "Will you quit asking me that! How the hell should I know? He'll be home when he's finished the job."

"But he was supposed to be back two days ago." Sam muttered.

"Don't you think I know that Sam. Quit whining and go read a book or something."

"But Dean…"

"Can't you see I'm trying to watch something here?" Dean snapped, punching the buttons on the remote control to pump up the volume.

Sam stared at the back of his brother's head for a moment before turning away. He would have loved to have somewhere private to go to escape, but the small motel room scarcely had room for the two beds, couch, and small kitchenette. Privacy was near impossible. Instead he retreated to the only space that he could really call his own. His bed. Propping himself against the headboard, he picked up the tattered book from the night stand and settled down to read.

He read for a couple of hours, immersing himself in the fantasy world the novel provided, until his nagging hunger pains refused to be ignored. How his brother could sit through all the fast food commercials was beyond him. His mouth watered every time a chocolate bar flickered across the screen or someone raised a piece of food to their mouth. They'd been on tight rations since yesterday, the last of their money going on extending their stay in the motel for a few more nights. A roof over their heads and a dry place to sleep were more important than something to eat, in the short term anyway. It wasn't the first time he'd been hungry, and he knew it wasn't going to be the last. But he'd been wet and cold too often to want to give up the room for something to eat. The rain was beating relentlessly against the motel windows and he didn't need to venture out to know that it would be utterly miserable outside, but still, he was hungry.

He opened the back cover of the book and looked at the five dollar bill nestled there, money he'd earned from helping out Pastor Jim during their last visit with him. He'd been saving it for something special.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean let out the single word with a resigned sigh.

"You hungry?"

"I told you Sam, we're out of cash so we gotta make what we have last."

Sam climbed off the bed, the five dollar bill clutched in his hand. Walking around the thread bare couch to stand in front of Dean, he held out the crumpled bill to his brother.

Dean looked at the money. "Where'd you get that Sam?"

"Pastor Jim gave it to me, the last time we stayed there. Remember, I helped sort the books?"

"You been holding out on me." Dean smiled as he took the fiver.

"We could maybe go get something to eat." Hope filled his voice as he waited for Dean to agree.

Dean looked out the window, but only hesitated for a moment. "Yeah, put your coat on and some shoes, we're going shopping." Dean shoved the money into his jeans pocket to join the few remaining coins nestled there. It wouldn't go far, but he was an expert at stretching their funds.

It was a testament to their hunger that they could get out of the room so fast. As tempted as Dean was to blow the money on a juicy burger, he knew he needed to get supplies that would last them a bit longer. With Sam trailing at his side, he led them down the puddle ridden street towards the local store.

Sam was excited just to be out of the motel room. He hadn't left the confined space for a few days and was desperate to have a change of scenery, even if for only a short time.

It didn't take long for his excitement to be replaced with the stark reality of the harsh weather. It took only moments for the water to soak through his sneakers and before long his socks squished between his toes with every step. By the time they'd reached the end of the block his too thin coat was barely making an impact in blocking out the icy rain and he felt the water soaking through to his layers underneath. He struggled to keep pace with his brother, now just wanting to get their food and return to the motel room.

He was practically shaking when they entered the store, leaving a trail of water in his wake. He brushed the dripping hair out of his eyes and towed behind his brother as Dean picked up a plastic shopping basket before making his way down the isles.

A loaf of marked down day old bread was the first addition to the basket, followed by some pasta, cheese and milk. As they walked back to the front of the store Dean did the calculations in his head. He had enough for their purchases with a tiny bit left over. A he emptied the basket in front of the cashier; he reached across to the confectionery display and added a small chocolate treat to their meagre collection of groceries. As the items were run through the register and placed in a bag, he snagged the chocolate bar and handed it to his brother.

Sam smiled at the offering, eagerly tearing off the wrapper and looking at the chocolate with reverence as his mouth watered in anticipation. He waited patiently as Dean paid and collected their bag before snapping the bar in half and handing Dean his share.

Dean shook his head in refusal. "No Sammy, you have it."

"But you're hungry too Dean?" His questioning eyes gazing at his brother.

"You shouldn't have to spend your money on goddamn groceries Sam. Eat the chocolate."

"I want you to have half Dean." Sam continued to hold out his offering.

Dean took the chocolate and shoved it in his mouth, savouring the taste as they headed back to the motel. "Come on runt; let's go make ourselves some sandwiches." Dean quipped as he picked up his pace in anticipation of a long overdue feed.

Sam pushed himself to keep up with his brother, struggling to keep his feet from falling into the too deep puddles and submerged pot holes. The rain was coming down in sheets now, making visibility poor as he had to bow his head against the driving rain. He envied his brother's longer legs and added height as Dean strode with impatience along the sidewalk.

**-o-**

If someone had asked him what he wanted for his birthday, pasta and cheese on stale bread wouldn't have been it. But he shoved the food into his mouth with disregard for spillage or mess, filling the growling hole in his stomach.

With the hunger pains vanquished; the day no longer seemed so bleak. Maybe their Dad would come back today, maybe he wouldn't, but Sam knew that the outcome was out of his control. At least though, today he had found something to contribute, some way to make their day pass a little easier. He settled into the couch and wriggled a little closer to his brother, seeking out the warmth.

_He wasn't a baby anymore_. He was probably too old to be tucked into his brother's side in front of the TV, but he didn't care. As a heavy arm fell across his shoulders he rested his head on his brother's chest and smiled.

_He was eleven now._

**-o-**

Two days later, just when they were starting to face the reality that they might get thrown out onto the streets, their dad showed up. Without much more than a scant apology for his delay, their meagre belongings were bundled up and stowed in the trunk of the Impala.

It was time to move on.

His heart fell when he heard that they were only moving a couple of towns over. He'd been dreaming of warm sun and blue skies, eager to escape the dreary weather. He was tired of the wind and the rain.

He listened in to the animated conversation between Dean and his Dad, as his brother pried out all the details of their father's last hunt. His presence was quickly forgotten in the back seat as they talked about ammunition, weapons and hunting techniques. Dean was eager to learn every last detail and his father revelled in having such an eager pupil to share his stories with, keen to have Dean follow in his footsteps.

He rested his back in the corner between the seat and the door and pulled his knees into his chest. He wanted to ask his father to turn the heating up a little, but there was no break in the conversation taking place in the front seat and he was lax to interrupt.

When they pulled to a stop in front of the run-down motel Sam couldn't prevent the shiver of revulsion that ran down his spine. He could only hope that the rooms were better than the outside appearance, which left a lot to be desired. It not only looked shabby, but unkempt and dirty. Knowing his father, the low price tag more than compensated for the lack of quality.

As he dropped his bag on the floor near the bed he knew he was right to be afraid. If anything, the outward appearance of the motel only gave a glimpse of the horror that lay behind its walls. The smell hit him first. Stale cigarette coupled with festering mould. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by the bare single globe swinging from the ceiling, he decided that maybe sleeping in the car would be preferable.

The tap in the kitchenette dripped a constant beat against the stained sink and he tried not to look too closely when he thought he saw something black and shiny scurry across the tarnished surface. The fridge door hung open, making no pretence of being able to function at all. Both beds sagged in the middle, the covers stained and threadbare. He shuddered to think of the conditions of the sheets hidden beneath. Finally, he turned and looked at the closed bathroom door, deciding that inspection of the toilet could wait until he was really desperate. He wasn't ready to face that yet. He wanted to pace himself.

"Friggin' hell, this place is a dump." Dean announced as he flung his own bag onto the bed.

"Watch your mouth Dean." John tossed back

"This is a new low, even for us Dad." Dean looked around the room.

"Yeah well, money doesn't grow on trees you know." John dropped his bag near the second bed, deciding that the room wasn't half bad considering the pittance he had to pay for it. "You boys want to go out, grab something to eat?"

"Yeah" was the unanimous reply.

Sam couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

**-o-**

The hot meal in a local diner made up for a lot. It chased away the emptiness and the cold. He felt part of the family, enjoying the feeling of peace and security as he and Dean sat side by side across from their father. For a moment, he could almost believe that everything was alright in his life. That they were normal. That he was normal.

Any hint of normalcy flew out the window the next day when instead of visiting the mall or going to the movies they set off for a trek through the nearby wilderness reserve for a little recognisance work. He'd begged to be left behind, but as usual his request fell on deaf ears.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only one who'd noticed it was raining. That it had been for days and there didn't seem to be an end it sight.

The damp was all encompassing. He'd layered his clothes in an attempt to ward off the icy rain but it made little difference. Only the steady pace set by his father was having any affect in keeping his body warm. No concessions made for his size or his shorter stride. He was expected to keep up.

The occasional glance over his father's shoulder and yell to "get his ass moving" was the only indication that his Dad remembered he was there. The occasional stop to check the map and note a landmark was his only respite from the unrelenting pace. He couldn't help but wonder why he'd needed to come in the first place.

Dean of course was in his element, more in tune with their father than ever before. As his brother grew in height, closer to their father, Sam felt like he was being left behind. He was like the third wheel which didn't really fit, scrambling to find common ground.

Twilight was taking hold when at last they made it back to the motel. A flickering fluorescent tube lighted the parking lot and he struggled not to stumble on the uneven ground as he followed his Dad and Dean to their room. Closing the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to a sodden heap on the floor. He felt like he'd been fighting exhaustion and cold for hours and not even the sight of the abysmal bed could stop him from collapsing against its length with a weary sigh. The rain had made his inner clothes damp and they were sticking uncomfortably to his body but he was too tired to shower and change, unsure if he even had any clean dry clothes to make the effort worthwhile. He wriggled until he was under the covers, ignoring their musty scent as he pulled them up to his chin. Sleep claimed him so quickly he barely remembered putting his head on the pillow.

**-o-**

He felt trepidation and a little relief the next morning when he discovered that his Dad and Dean were planning on going out and leaving him behind.

"It'll be boring Sammy." Dean announced as he packed a few things into a bag with feigned nonchalance.

John glanced across at his youngest. "Trust me son, it'll only be for a few hours, you'll be better off waiting here."

"But Dad, what if…" Sam felt the need to protest.

"This isn't up for discussion son; you'll do as you're told." He was summarily dismissed.

Sam sat in rebellious silence as he watched guns being checked and loaded, knives sharpened and supplies readied. He'd got the message loud and clear. He wasn't needed, so no way was he going to offer to help.

Opening his book, he settled down to read, making a pointed effort to ignore the bustle of activity in the room. He refused to comment on the fact that it looked like they were planning a three day trip rather than a one nighter. After all, he reminded himself, he was eleven now, old enough to be left on his own.

After lunch, he watched as the car was loaded with military precision, each weapon having a designation slot, each bag a set position. A place for everything and everything in its place. Except for him. He didn't have a place in this hunt. He was being left behind.

He stood in the doorway and watched as his Dad shut the trunk of the Impala with firm pressure before heading back in his direction.

"You know the drill Sam. Don't open the door for anyone, for any reason. I want you to stay in the room son, there's no reason for you to be coming outside, you hear me?"

"Yes Sir."

"You have any problems, you give Pastor Jim a call, he'll know what to do."

Sam nodded his understanding.

"Should be back tomorrow morning, evening at the latest." John felt a little uneasy about leaving his youngest son behind, but knew that Sam would never be able to keep up in the rough terrain in the dark. John gave the seedy motel a quick glance, but pushed his unease aside as he threw his youngest a small bribe to ease his conscience. "Soon as we're back, we'll head west, find an apartment, get you enrolled in school again, okay?"

Sam nodded in reply.

A clip on the back of the head heralded Dean's exit from the room. "Dude, you touch any of my stuff and I'll kick your ass."

Sam smiled, twin dimples on full display as he took the derogatory jibe for the sincere goodbye his brother intended.

"Make me proud son." Accompanied a firm pat on the shoulder from his Dad as he too strode back to the car.

Sam stood framed in the doorway until the car disappeared from view. With a last glance around the parking lot he stepped back into the room, closed the door and engaged the lock. Only as the eerie silence hit him did he fully comprehend that it was just him now.

_He__ was alone._

**To be continued…**

**-o-**

**Reviews are love …need I say more?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you everyone who reviewed – truly, it's this that keeps me typing away, even when there are other things I _should_ be doing! My internet connection is being a little temperamental at the moment, so if I didn't send you thanks, please accept them now. Luck is on my side - I'm online two days running, a miracle in itself, so while the going is good, here's the next chapter.

Oh, and of course, praise again to Supernaturaldh for the beta - poor girl doesn't yet know what she's committed herself to!

**Chapter ****2**

John and Dean took refuge in the cave, the small overhang of rocks providing a much needed escape from the unrelenting rain. Trying to track anything in this weather was sheer lunacy, Dean had thought, but for once, he'd underestimated his Dad's ability. Within a couple of hours they'd picked up the trail of the Keelut, following it for the better part of the night.

Feeling completely exhausted, he nearly admitted defeat when they'd entered the clearing and seen the beast on the far side. His dad had told him what to expect, but still it came as a surprise. Ugly wasn't an apt enough description, he thought, as he looked at the stocky hairless dog, its muzzle covered in blood as it tore apart its latest kill. Its preoccupation allowed them to get the drop on it, and the kill was over almost as soon as it begun. The whole hunt was anticlimactic really, considering the hours that they'd been tracking the beast. Without the surge of adrenaline or the thrill of a chase he felt deflated, disappointed almost, as if they'd done little more than track some rabid dog killing off the local wildlife.

They'd had to settle for dismembering and burying the remains, any chance of striking a fire in the open weather futile. He'd been pleased to see that the latest 'victim' was just an unfortunate pet that had wandered too far from home, and that they hadn't been too late to save another young child.

More than anything now, he wanted to get back to the motel. Back to his brother. It seemed though, that the weather had other ideas. His dad was right; it would be easier to wait until the rain eased up just a little before they started back. Even with a flashlight, visibility was down to nearly zero and without the urgency of the hunt, there was really no hurry. They'd be best to wait out the storm.

**-o-**

Sam found the silence in the room unsettling. He'd listened to the rain, the TV and even the radio, but it wasn't the same. He'd never willingly admit it out loud, but he missed his brother and his Dad. He couldn't understand why they'd left him behind. _Was he that much of a burden? _

After a quick shower and an attack by the scratchy motel towel, he rummaged through his bag for some fresh clothes, coming up empty. Thanks to the weather, everything he owned was damp and they hadn't had the time or the funds to find a Laundromat and do a load of washing. It always seemed that even essentials just didn't get a look in on the Winchester priority list.

He considered putting back on his recently discarded clothes with a grimace of distaste. Fresh from the shower, he was finally feeling warm and dry for the first time in days. Spying Dean's bag pushed up near the corner of the room, he decided to tempt his brother's wrath and have a look. His brother's often repeated phrase 'stay out of my stuff' echoed through his head, but he pushed the words aside.

From the looks of things, Dean was fairing slightly better than he was, and after a moment of hesitation he snagged one of the rolled up t-shirts out of the bag and put it on. It was a few sizes too large, but it would do the job.

With nowhere to go and no one to see him, he tossed his damp jeans over the back of a chair, hoping they'd dry out before tomorrow. Swallowed by the large t-shirt he padded on bare feet into the small kitchenette, to the sink at the end of the room. The fridge didn't work and there wasn't a stove, so they hadn't used the sparse amenities yet, instead preferring to eat out. Now however, without his Dad around, he was forced to scrounge through the meagre supplies left behind.

**-o-**

Sam was reclining on the bed with a book in his lap and the TV volume down low when a demanding pounding on the door broke the peace.

_He wasn't expecting company._

He lay the book slowly down and eyed the door wearily, wondering if whoever was there would just go away if he didn't answer.

Being as quiet as he could, he crept over to the chair and reached out for his jeans, keeping an eye on the door the whole time.

Silently, he slipped the damp jeans over his hips and slid the zipper closed. He faced the door, unwilling to answer it but not keen to turn his back on it either. When moments went by with no further disturbance he felt the fear start to abate.

When a fist pounded on the door again he startled in fright, even though he had been half expecting it. Reaching across the table for his knife, he grasped it firmly, the weight in his hand bringing him a measure of comfort and control. He slid the knife into the waistband of his jeans and let his t-shirt fall back down to conceal the weapon.

He walked to the door, still silent, his bare feet making no sound on the worn carpet. He looked down at the door handle, watching as it twisted right and left, and he said a small prayer of thanks that at least something in this crappy motel worked as the lock refused to budge.

"Open up." The gruff voice demanded from the other side.

Sam stood stock still and silent, heart thumping against his chest.

"Open the goddamn door!" The thin door shook as the fist pounded it again with increased force.

Sam instinctively took a step backwards.

He waited, feeling the presence standing behind the door, only taking a breath again when he heard the heavy footsteps beat a path away from the room.

Creeping over to the window, he pushed a corner of the curtain aside, peering out into the wet darkness, spying a shape moving across the parking lot.

His heart pounded in his chest and he willed his breathing to get back under control. He felt the knife resting in the small of his back and felt reassured by its heavy weight. A shiver ran down the back of his neck and despite the cold, a sweat broke out on his palms.

_Something didn't feel quite right__._

Moving quickly around the room, he grabbed his boots and jacket before switching off the TV and overhead light. He retreated into the corner of the room and put on his boots and jacket before resting his back against the wall. He slid down until he sat, legs hunched before him as he faced the room, just able to make out the ratty furniture in the dim light leaking through the inadequate curtains.

He tried to calm himself, reasoning that he shouldn't be so freaked by someone knocking at the door. They probably just had the wrong room, he reasoned, and it seemed that they'd gone on their way. He tried telling himself that he was acting like a baby; that if his Dad or Dean could see him now they'd be laughing their asses off, but his pep talk didn't work. Adrenaline still pumped through his body and the fear refused to abate.

_He wouldn't be sleeping tonight._

**-o-**

Moments later the silence was shattered again. Through the darkness, he heard the heavy tread of footsteps approaching, and willed them to just walk on past, to stop before some other door. But he knew, deep down, that they were coming for him. There weren't any other guests in the motel rooms on either side, hell, there probably weren't any other guests in the motel at all. As that thought hit him, he suddenly realised how alone he actually was.

His heart thumped loud in his chest and the blood pounded in his ears as his vision tunnelled, his sole focus the door across from him.

With his back against the wall he rose slowly to his feet, listening as the footsteps came to a stop.

"I know you're in there boy. There ain't no free board here – your Daddy only paid for the two nights. Now, you either pay up or get out."

Sam stood rooted to the spot, wondering whether the man would just turn around and leave if he failed to answer.

He heard the key scrape against the door a few times before it slid smoothly into the lock. He watched, mesmerised, as the door handle turned, unhindered this time by the lock blocking its movements.

The door swung open, caught by the wind to bang forcefully against the wall before it came to a sudden stop. The motel manager stood, framed in the entrance, his over-weight body outlined by the flickering outside light but his features hidden.

"We don't take kindly to free-loaders 'round here boy." The man glanced around the room, his eyes coming to rest on Sam.

"My Dad'll pay you what we owe." Sam eyed the man with trepidation but refused to display his fear.

"I know your daddy left you boy." The man stepped into the room and with a resounding thud, he swung the door closed. "He left you for me."

**-o-**

Sam felt the fear creep through his limbs. _God no_, he thought, stark terror threatening to take hold at the man's ominous words.

The lights flickered on and Sam was momentarily blinded, blinking as he tried to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden change of light. He kept his eyes trained on the man, shivering as his features took on clarity. The motel manager, who he'd seen only in brief passing the day before, was middle aged and flabby, too tight clothes stretched to accommodate his ample girth. His pale fleshy cheeks were flushed red, breathing labored, and Sam cringed as the man ran his tongue along his lips before a malicious grin split across his face.

He watched as the manager stepped further into the room, closer, and Sam instinctively took a few steps back until his feet hit the wall behind him.

"You got nowhere to go boy," the gravely voice taunted.

Sam shivered in revulsion; the manager's intentions sinking in. He weighed up the odds of getting past the man, of making a run for the door, but he knew his chances were slim. The manager seemed to dominate the small room, his fleshy bulk blocking any chance Sam had to escape.

"My Dad'll be back anytime now." Sam stated, the slight tremor in his voice belying his calm words.

A sick smile spread across the manager's face. "Boy, your daddy ain't coming back."

"He is." Sam contradicted, wanting to wipe the smile off the man's face. "Anytime now, he'll be back."

The manager threw his head back and laughed, the vile sound echoing through the confined space. "You looked outside boy? Seen the rain? Seen any traffic go by this last hour or so?" He laughed again, deep and all encompassing as his whole body shook with the effort.

No, he's lying, Sam thought. His Dad was coming back for him. Dean was coming back for him. No, they wouldn't leave him here, _would they?_

"The roads are closed boy, closed in all directions. Rain's cut us off. There ain't nobody coming for you."

Sam felt as if the world had been swept out from under him as the man reinforced his fearful thoughts. _Nobody's coming._

The space between him and freedom shortened as the manager slowly approached with a lecherous smile as he looked Sam up and down and saw the stark terror blazoned on his face.

"Just you and me now," he promised, staring at Sam.

Sam shook his head in denial. 'No', he wanted to shout, but fear held him silent.

"You owe me boy, and I've come to collect."

Sam wanted to yell for his dad, for Dean. He wanted to hear them come running, to take away his fear, to keep him safe and out of harms way. He didn't care what they might think, what they might say, he needed them and he needed them _now_.

But they weren't coming. He knew that. They weren't around. They'd left him, abandoned him, when he needed them the most. They'd left him alone, expecting him to fend for himself, until they came back for him. _If_ they came back for him.

Sam glanced wildly around the room, knowing it was all up to him now.

'_Focus. Watch your opponent. Bide your time. Make every strike count.' _Sam heard his dad's words in his head, the years of training screaming to be heard.

The manager stepped up close to him, reaching out a hand to cup his chin. The callused fingers were dirty and rough and Sam flinched under the touch.

"Such a good looking boy." Sam felt the stale breath near his face as the man whispered his praise.

"No," Sam muttered trying to twist his face away.

The grip tightened on his chin and Sam could feel the fingers digging into his skin, leaving their angry mark. He kicked out, catching the man across the shin, the contact eliciting a harsh swear word. The man retaliated with a hard slap across his face and Sam reeled under the man's hand as his head swam from the impact.

"Like it rough, do you?" Thick fingers entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling taunt.

Pain tore through the back of his scull, but it only prompted him to fight back harder, and he lashed out with feet and hands at the man holding him prisoner. _He needed to escape!_

"No!" Sam's scream tore through the room as he reached into the waistband of his jeans, fingers grasping to wrap around the hilt of his knife.

**To be continued…** (yes, I'm back to writing a multi-chapter story!)

**-o-**

**Reviews are love, of course!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:**My over-worked beta, Supernaturaldh, is still sticking with me, so many thanks must go to her for such an awesome yet tedious job.

Hopefully I replied to all the reviews, but if I missed you, many many thanks. Now, this story is a little on the dark side, but I don't think I need to issue any warnings. On the brighter side, I have coughed up some extra coins and now have new faster internet access - of course, from now on I can only blame my pathetically slow writing skills for my tardiness and not the computer !!

**Chapter ****3**

Sam fought back with everything he had. As if his life depended on it.

His life did depend on it.

A beefy hand grasped his upper arm, pulling him away from the wall. He put his weight into keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground, but it was useless, his body being dragged forward against his will.

His free hand pulled the knife from the waistband of his jeans and he struck out, slashing the manager across his forearm. As the blade drew back, slick with blood, he thanked his father's exacting standards that ensured their knives were always kept razor sharp.

As the hands released him he staggered backwards, instinct making him put some distance between himself and the manager. He kept the knife held in from of his body, ready to strike out again. He watched the manager wearily as he forced his feet to move, inching his way along the wall, towards the door while keeping his distance from his attacker.

The motel manager stood in the centre of the room, cradling his bleeding arm, a look of stunned disbelief on his ruddy face.

Disbelief quickly turned to anger as the pain sharpened his senses and the object of his disdain moved in front of him. He countered the boy's movements, matching his steps as he blocked any chance the kid had to escape. This was his motel, and they were playing by his rules now.

"You're gonna pay for that boy." He growled in Sam's direction. "When I get my hands on you, you're gonna know what pain is, gonna know how this feels," he indicated his bleeding arm. "I'm gonna bleed you boy, and when I'm finished with you, your daddy ain't gonna recognise what's left. You understand me boy?"

Sam kept the knife steady as he stared into the face of evil.

Fear compelled him into action. Recognising the futility of trying to bypass the man and reach the door, he twisted instead and bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door closed and the lock into place as quickly as he could. Physical bulk and strength may not be on his side, but he had the advantage of speed, and as he eyed the small bathroom window, he realised his smaller size would be an advantage.

His hands shook as he returned the knife into the waistband of his jeans, feeling bereft without the weapon clenched in his fist. But he needed both hands and he needed to move fast. He needed to get away, the thought of being trapped in the bathroom with the motel manager the makings of a nightmare, one he would do everything to avoid.

He was already scrambling onto the toilet seat as the bathroom door gave its first shudder in protest to the body slamming into it from the other side. Sam flinched, but continued in his goal, shoving the small window open as far as it would go, hoping with all his heart that he'd be able to squeeze through the narrow space.

With both hands braced on the window sill he pulled himself upwards, pushing his upper body through the opening. His feet looked for purchase, but there was nothing; instead he had to rely on arm strength alone to pull himself though, inch by slow inch.

"Aint nowhere to hide boy; might as well give it up now 'nd save me the trouble of breaking down this here door."

Sam's heart pounded as he heard the words yelled through the door, but he remained silent as he continued to wriggle out the small window.

"Only gonna make things worse boy, when I get my hands on you."

A moment later Sam heard the man throw himself at the bathroom door again; only this time the loud thump was followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

Sam hung like a pendulum, hips balanced precariously on the window sill as he stared at the ground below him. Rubbish and broken beer bottles littered the gravel at the rear of the motel building, a rancid smell accompanying the filth.

He had no way to break his fall.

With palms splayed flat against the outside wall, he pushed his body forward, mentally bracing himself for the anticipated head first descent to the ground. As his body tipped forward, he threw out his hands, desperate to protect his face and head from impact.

Rough hands grabbed his ankles, stopping his descent with a sharp jolt and he let out an involuntary cry as his body jarred against the wall. Fear coursed through him again and he thrashed wildly, trying to free himself.

"You little weasel. If ya think I'm just gonna let you worm your way outta here without paying your dues boy you got another thing coming."

Sam fought against the strength reeling him back towards the room. His fingers scrambled to find something, anything, to hold onto, but there was nothing but the coarse brickwork scraping against his skin and tearing at his fingernails.

He screamed as he was pulled sharply against the metal window frame, now only his upper body free. He tried to jam his shoulders in the small gap to prevent further movement, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"I'm gonna have fun with you boy," the lecherous words reached his ears as careless hands freed his legs and grabbed hold of his waist.

Sam took the momentary lapse in the man's judgement to kick out hard with his freed legs. He heard a gasp as his foot caught the man across his throat, and for a moment, the hands at his waist slackened.

It was all he needed.

Uncaring now about pain or the fall ahead of him he heaved his body with full force out the window.

He landed heavily, almost expecting to have been yanked back at the last second. He laid still for a moment, winded, the breath knocked out of his body.

He looked up, seeing the motel manager's grotesque face framed in the small open window and hearing obscene words spewing from his mouth. He groaned and rolled over, moving his protesting body away from the building.

Blindly, he ran into the dark rainy night.

**-o-**

Dean tried to stifle his uneasiness as he leant back against the cold cave wall. Being here, with his Dad, and Sam being so far away didn't bode well for his peace of mind. He'd tried telling himself that Sam was fine, the little runt probably drier and warmer than he had any right to be, but it didn't make things any easier. He needed to see it for himself.

His dad seemed unperturbed. Sam, he said, was old enough to manage one night on his own. Hell, at Sam's age, Dean had managed quite well to look after himself, plus his younger brother, on more than one occasion.

He shifted uncomfortable as he stared out into the night. The rain was unrelenting and showing no signs of easing off. At this rate, they'd be lucky to be making any headway before first light.

**-o-**

Sam ran.

He had no destination, just the one thought racing through his head. _Escape!_

Pain didn't hinder his progress. He sprinted, his body fuelled by pure adrenaline as he put as much distance between himself and the motel as he could. His ears were on high alert, straining to hear if the sounds of heavy footsteps were in pursuit, but he didn't pause to turn around. He couldn't – couldn't bear to see the manager mirroring his route, following, watching. Escape was his only objective.

So he ran.

Through the parking lot, across the road, and into the trees on the other side.

Still he ran.

He ran until he was surrounded by thick branches and dense undergrowth. Until his hands and face and clothes were strewn with cuts and scratches from the sharp branches that he pushed from his path. Ran until he stumbled, his legs finally calling his journey to a halt, his limbs flailing as his legs collapsed, flinging his body to the ground.

He lay still, the breath panting from between his lips as he struggled to draw air into his winded lungs. His mind screamed at him to get up, to keep moving, but his exhausted body failed to move. He remained prone on the muddy ground, listening to his harsh breathing, the sound loud even against the backdrop of heavy rain. He listened, for other sounds, movements, anything out of place in the dense undergrowth. He listened for his attacker.

He didn't know how long he lay there. The adrenaline dissipated and his heart rate slowed. Fine tremors racked through his body and the pain that he'd resolutely held at bay screamed for acknowledgment. He groaned, rolling onto his back before propping himself up on his elbows.

Darkness surrounded him. He looked in all directions, seeing only the dim outlines of trees and more trees. He listened, hearing nothing other than the rain hitting the soft earth and wet leaves. He knew, instinctively, that he was alone.

"Dean?" He whispered the comforting name, wishing he could call across space and distance.

He waited for an answer he knew would never come.

**-o-**

There were few perks, Frank thought, in managing a dump like this. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and at the end of the day, the isolation and the clientele the motel attracted pampered to his greater purpose. Every now and again, a dead beat parent would show up, kid in tow, downtrodden and neglected, seeking the attention they'd been too long denied. Attention he could provide. Warmth flushed through his body as his mind wandered, anticipation igniting his senses.

Frank closed the motel door behind him; taking care to make sure he left the door locked. He'd closed the bathroom window and wiped clean all traces of his presence in the room. The minor damage to the bathroom door he hoped would go unnoticed, its poor condition blending in with the other shabby décor. He'd wiped up every drop of spilled blood, and for that, the boy would pay.

It was time to go hunting.

**-o-**

Sam sat huddled under a tree, knees drawn up to his chest, his back resting against rough bark. A small tear slid out from the corner of his eye, mingling with the raindrops running down his face.

He looked around, at the trees crowding in on him from every direction. He'd run blindly, and now, he had no recollection of which way he'd come from, no idea of which way to go.

"What should I do?" He whispered into the darkness, tears falling unhindered now.

He couldn't go back to the motel, even if he could find it again. He couldn't go to Dean or his dad, he didn't know where they where or when they'd be back. '_If they'd be back'_the thought raced unheeded through his mind.

His clothes were heavy with mud and the rain had soaked through his jeans and jacket, leaving his skin exposed to the damp fabric with no protection against the cold. Already he could feel the tender areas where bruises were raised against his skin, the damage deep and painful.

Most of the damage though was to his hands and head from the impact with the ground after he fell from the bathroom window. Blood kept snaking across his eye before running down his face to mingle with the rain. He raised a trembling hand up to the large welt concealed beneath his hair, even the slightest touch causing him to gasp in pain.

He pulled his hand away, nursing it next to his other one on top of his raised knees. He could feel the small pieces of glass and gravel embedded in his palms, sharp pinpricks of pain shooting through his hands every time he applied any pressure. He held his palms out to the rain, the cold water soothing the inflamed skin, washing away the pain with small rivulets of blood.

_To be continued._

**-o-**

**reviews are love :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: **I know, I'm a little tardy with this chapter, but …the brain is slooooow!

I'm still picking myself off the floor after all the encouraging reviews – thank you so much, I feel truly inspired. Thanks also to my beta, Supernaturaldh, who works tirelessly to help me.

**Chapter 4**

Frank pulled out the metal box he stored under his bed, the steel battered and rusty with age. It was his most prized possession, one of the few things he truly treasured. Opening the clasp with reverence, he looked inside; a flush of guilty pleasure washing over him as he anticipated what was to come.

He reached in and removed his drop point hunting knife with the curved blade of thick steel. The solid wood grip was a firm caress in his hand and he couldn't help but run one finger down the full length of the blade. He admired it for a moment, holding it up and watching it glisten under the light, before slipping it into the belt at his waist. Next he retrieved the roll of gaffer tape and small coil of thin rope, slipping both into the pockets of his over-sized jacket. Experience had taught him to be prepared, and, even without feeling the bandage adorning his arm; he could see that this boy spelled trouble.

He closed the lid on the metal box and slid it back into its hiding place. Finally, he was ready to head out.

He flipped the sign on his office door to 'closed' before stepping outside and locking it behind him. The tacky neon sign flickering against the rain advertised 'no vacancy', but with the roads closed, he expected no new guests tonight.

_No new guests_, he thought with a grin of anticipation. No one to hear, no one to see, no two faced nosy passer-by's that he'd be forced to deal with. No, this night was his. He could bring the boy back and bask in his freedom to his hearts content.

"Frankie's coming for you boy, Frankie's coming," he chanted, heading off in the direction he'd seen the boy run. Hell, he'd spent half his life in this backwater, knew the land like the palm of his hand.

**-o-**

He didn't know what to do. Where to go.

The dark night surrounded him, pulling him in, and he felt utterly alone.

Sam trembled with cold and fear, hating that he was so afraid but unable to stop the desolation that washed over him. Was this it, he wondered, a small sob escaping.

He flinched at each small rustle of leaves and as he looked out, he swore he could see the shadows moving, dark menacing shapes blending in to the night. Everything was magnified; sound, movements …cold. He shivered again and pulled his jacket in a little tighter.

Sitting huddled under the tree, he tried to make his body small, inconspicuous. Resting his head on his knees, his thoughts drifted to Dean and his dad, and he wondered what they were doing, how the hunt was going, did they think of him?

_Were they coming back?_

The manager's words echoed through his head _"boy, your daddy ain't coming back"_ and he so badly wanted to deny those words with complete surety. But, at the back of his mind, a shiver of unease settled over him and a little uncertainty crept in. _What if the manager was right? _After all, wasn't he always the last to know about what was happening, what was being planned?

No, he pushed the negative thoughts aside as he looked out into the night. His dad and Dean might have left him, but they were going to come back. He focused on that thought, trying to block out the rain and the cold and the tremors that racked uncontrollably through his body.

They were coming back. He shivered. The only thing was; he was no longer there.

He let his eyes drift closed, needing to rest for just a moment.

**-o-**

Frank stood at the edge of the clearing, his flashlight casting shadows over the trees in his path. Already his boots were thick with mud, each step causing the soft earth to squish under his heavy tread. On any given day, he loved to hunt, not picky on what he preyed upon. But today, with the heavens opening up and the cold wind blowing, he'd rather be warm inside, seeking his pleasures else where. He mentally kicked himself for underestimating the boy. For letting him get away. God, he thought, as he pushed the low lying branches out of his way, this damn kid better be worth it.

He surged forwards, following the trail of broken branches and snapped twigs. Really, the kid was making it too easy, and he only hoped the boy had run out of steam before he'd ventured too far. It was one thing to capture the boy, but he didn't relish having to drag a dead weight too far back through the mud and dense undergrowth. Not if he could help it anyway. He needed to make sure he kept the boy conscious, at least until they got back to the motel, so that he could carry his own weight and walk out on his own two feet.

**-o-**

Dean shifted uncomfortably on the solid dirt, not for the first time wondering why they couldn't have come at least a little prepared for a spot of camping.

He looked across at his father who reclined with nonchalance, his back resting against the cave wall. Despite the rough conditions, he appeared comfortable in the terrain, relaxed, almost as if he was more at home in the outdoors than he was at home.

Yeah, home, Dean thought, his mind picturing the crappy motel in which they'd left Sam. It mightn't be home, whatever the hell that was, but it still had to be a far sight more comfortable than this friggin' cave.

A night of sleeping under the stars, trying to keep the cold at bay as they feasted on re-hydrated food and sparse army rations wasn't his idea of a good time. He thought longingly of freshly cooked cheese burgers and crisp fries, washed down with a cold soda. As his mouth watered and stomach grumbled he pushed the thoughts away, knowing they could bring him no joy.

He pulled his jacket collar up to ward off the cold and rotated his tired shoulder muscles. It always irked him that he struggled to match the stamina and strength of his dad. Hell, he was two decades younger; he ought to have it all over his old man.

John watched as Dean shifted restlessly. "Everything looks clear, but you can't afford to drop your guard, you hear me?" John reminded his son, his shotgun resting against the cave wall but within arms length.

"Yes sir." Dean fingered the revolver tucked into his waistband, reassured by its heavy presence.

"Try 'nd get some rest, its going to be a long night." John wiped a hand across his damp hair as he looked out into night. It was times like this that he felt most at rest, with a solid wall at his back and the rain washing away the blood he'd spilt on the damp earth. Just a man and his son; camping, hunting - living the good old American dream. For just a moment in time he could let himself dream.

**-o-**

Frank pushed aside the branches blocking his way, trudging forward with steadfast purpose.

"I'm coming for you boy, I'm coming for you," he muttered under his breath, his heavy steps keeping time with the soft chant. "Come out; come out, wherever you are."

He was getting close; he thought a little while later, he could feel it. The boy was around here somewhere, just waiting to be found. He stopped in his tracks and let his eyes scan the surrounding trees. He moved forwards again, steps slow and silent now as he watched each footing to ensure his silence. No point in alerting his prey to his presence.

Reaching down to his belt, he let his fingers get a firm grip on the hilt of his knife, withdrawing the weapon from its nesting spot. He weighed it in his hand, relishing the feeling of power it brought to him. He had the strength, he was in control, and all feelings of inadequacy and failure fled as his body primed for the task at hand.

He felt like spitting on the mocking words of his peers that had tormented him when he'd been growing up, wishing for a scant moment that they could see him now. Oh how they'd fear him, take back all the misery that they'd inflicted on him, the cruel taunts they'd yelled, day after day. He wanted to stamp on his father's grave and shout 'see me now, see what I have become' and throw back the words that he had heard repeated over and over again, telling him he was worthless, that he would amount to nothing.

Most of all, he wanted to see the fear in the boy's eyes. He wanted to see him quiver, wanted to make him grovel, make him beg. He wanted to make him pay for running, for cutting him like he was no more than an animal. He'd show the boy who the animal was. He'd make him bleed, painful and slow, until he was begging for mercy, praying for release.

Then his prowling eyes fell on his target and he stopped in his tracks. He'd nearly missed him at first, so small, fragile almost against the tall sturdy trees, but the boy's outline was unmistakable.

Standing still was near torment, but this was not his first hunt and experience had taught him well. He braced his legs and waited to see if the boy would move, attempt to flee from him, but he was ready, waiting to pounce.

The boy remained unmoving, coiled in on himself, and it was almost too easy, Frank thought, until he remembered the wound that had already been inflicted. He shifted to the side, stalking his prey from the side, inching closer step by step, just waiting for his opportunity.

He tried to still his ragged breathing as he stepped to within an arms length and still the boy remained unmoving and silent.

Clearly, the boy was no match for his skill.

**-o-**

Sam clenched his eyes closed and tried to pretend he was anywhere else but here. Tried to pretend he was warm and dry, that Dean and their dad were at his side, that he was safe and protected.

He tried to pretend that he was not alone.

He wanted to believe that this was just a dream but the cold and the rain convinced him otherwise. No, this was a nightmare from which he might never wake up.

He didn't need to look up. He knew he was no longer alone. He could feel the presence, cold and menacing, creeping closer though the undergrowth. He didn't dare twitch, scarcely drawing in air as he tried to remain as still as possible to mask his position in the night. "_Just walk on by_" he silently implored, listening to the footsteps moving in his direction.

He wanted to jump up and flee, but his limbs felt heavy and weighted down, pain and cold rendering them useless. His whole body ached and he was just so tired. He knew he couldn't run, that this was it, here and now. He was found.

Very slowly, without raising his head, he moved one hand down towards the waistband of his jeans, towards his knife. The presence was getting closer now and he could almost feel the warm fetid breath on the back of his neck. _Please no!_

For the first time it was just him. This time he had to stand on his own two feet. There wasn't going to be any big brother running to his rescue, no Dad standing firm and solid by his side. There weren't going to be any second chances, deep down, he knew that. So he wrapped his hand around his knife and griped it with all his strength. He may be only eleven, but he'd been trained well and the knife was a familiar weight in his hand. He just wished it was not his only weapon.

He waited with baited breath until he could almost feel the air around him move. Until he knew he could lash out with a solid strike and reach his target. When he felt the first brush of fingers on his shoulder he spurred into action. Twisting his body towards his attacker, he put his weight behind his movement as he thrust the knife forward.

A sharp cry echoed through the night and he knew he'd hit his target. He pulled the knife back, staggering to his feet as he prepared to lunge with the knife again.

A fleshy hand caught his wrist mid air, almost pulling him off his feet. "You cut me once boy, maybe I can forgive, but you cut me twice, for that you gotta pay." The grip tightened around his wrist, bruising and painful, clenching tighter and tighter until he felt the knife fall from his strangled hand.

Like a rag doll he wavered, arm held high above his head as he struggled against the restraint. He kicked out, but the blow was easily dodged, a sharp slap across the face the reward for his efforts.

He blinked, trying to focus as his head spun from the impact. "Please," he whispered to his assailant.

Frank smiled at the pleading tone. "Boy, you got this coming to ya. We could've played nice, taken things slow and easy, but no, you gotta do things the hard way." He raised his fist and slammed it into the side of the boys head.

**-o-**

Dean trailed his fingers through the dirt, making swirly patterns, before wiping his easel clean and starting again. Sleep eluded him.

He looked across at his dad, taking in his closed eyes and restful pose. Although his Dad looked to be asleep, Dean knew that it was just an illusion. His body was at rest, but some small part of him was, as always, on alert.

John opened his eyes and took a resigned breath. "Spit it out son, whatever it is."

Dean looked at his Dad in surprise. "I ah …you think Sammy's okay?"

John rubbed a tired hand across his eyes, wondering why his eldest couldn't just let this topic go. "At some stage Dean, you gotta stop babying your brother. Christ, at his age you were not only taking care of yourself, but him as well. In the long run, you're not doing him any favors, you know, by always picking up his slack. Don't think I don't notice."

"I just got a bad feeling, is all." Dean muttered.

"Most Sammy has to worry about is the crappy TV reception, or God forbid, a lump in his pillow, so quit worrying about your brother and try to get a little shut eye. Plan on heading out at first light and I don't want you dragging your feet and slowing us down." John gave Dean a last glance before closing his eyes again.

**-o-**

Sam lay on his side, slick mud coating his hair and clothes. The pain throbbing through his head was the first thing he noticed, quickly followed by a surge of fear as his memory resurfaced.

The motel manager stood tall over him, and as he blinked back to consciousness, he received a final small kick in the guts for his efforts.

"'bout time boy, my foot was getting real tired prodding your sorry ass," Frank leered.

Sam struggled, trying to rise, but his arms were useless, bound tight together behind his back. He flopped back to the ground, struggling to regain his breath. He wanted to shout, yell for help, but the tape stretched across his mouth kept his lips firmly closed.

_To be continued._

**-o-**

**Yes, send me some lovin' – review please.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **Wow, I'm overwhelmed (in a good way) with the responses, what more can I say, except thank you!

Supernaturaldh again lent me her beta skills for this chapter – I have to thank her, because not only does she give my confidence a boost, but she helps me see how even the little changes can make such a difference. Did I play with it again after she got it all ship shape? Of course I did - so all remaining mistakes are mine.

**Chapter 5**

A single globe swung, extended on the end of the frayed electrical cord. The light it shed was dim, casting eerie shadows around the room, not quite reaching the farthest corners. Sam let his eyes search the shadows, but he didn't recognise his surroundings. The room was bare and bleak, the damp smell of festering mould lingering in the air. Simple sparse furnishings decorated the spartan space, lacking adornment but plastered with dust, attesting to its infrequent use.

That he was back at the motel was unquestionable – he'd fought his return every step of the way.

It was like something out of his worst nightmare, being dragged back against his will. He'd fought with everything he had, the entire time, dragging his feet, stumbling over the rough ground as he tried to slow their progress, hoping maybe, that the manager would just leave him behind. Being left behind was something he was used to. Each time he faltered though, he was pulled roughly back to his feet, pushed forwards and prodded until he started walking again.

He felt defeated, as if all his efforts had been in vain. Maybe his dad was right, he was too slow. Here he was, back where he had started, and now the manager was even angrier, undisguised cruelty twisting his features.

He watched as the manager twirled the knife in his hand, the blade thick and wide.

Fear surrounded him like a thick blanket and he wanted to cringe away, to put extra distance between himself and the man, however small that distance might be. But he was hopelessly trapped.

He wanted to shout his protest, scream his denial, but no words would come. The tape stuck firm across his mouth and even drawing in air was a struggle as he tried not to gag against the restrictions.

_Why him? What had he done to deserve this?_

_What now?_

He watched the blade rotate in the manager's hand, fearing the answers to his silent questions.

"What you looking at boy?" Frank watched the kid eyeing him. Watched as he squirmed and struggled, pulling against his bindings.

Sam couldn't answer; instead he just lowered his gaze to the floor.

"What boy? Cat got ya tongue?" Frank goaded, moving to stand over the boy. "Nothing to say for yourself now eh, now that ya realised who's in charge here."

Sam shook his head in denial.

Frank bent down and ripped the tape off Sam's mouth. "Answer me boy when I speak to you."

"Nuh," Sam croaked, trying to bring some moisture to his dry lips.

"You cussing me boy?" Frank ran a finger down the blade of the knife.

Sam shook his head again, eyes locked to the large knife.

"Like knives do you boy?" Frank asked as he followed the boy's line of sight, "'cause this one here, it's my favorite, but I got more where this came from." A sneer spread across his lips. "Play your cards right boy and maybe I'll let ya see them."

"No." Sam whispered.

Frank gave a quick laugh before he picked Sam's knife up off the table. "Ah, boy, you cut me twice, so I reckon fairs fair." Reaching down, he pulled apart the edges of Sam's jacket, exposing the t-shirt underneath.

Sam shook as the manager lent over him with the knife, bringing the blade closer, until he could feel the point pressing against the centre of his chest. He held back the whimper of pain, biting his tongue to prevent the sound from escaping. He felt the scrape of the blade as it carved down the length of his chest, tearing a stripe through the fabric of his shirt and drawing a fine line of blood.

Frank looked at his handiwork. For now, the injury to the boy was little more than a scratch, but he was just getting started. He looked at the knife he'd taken from the boy, now wet with blood. "Your dad give ya this knife boy, 'cause I gotta say, a kid shouldn't be running around playing with a blade like this, just damn irresponsible is what that is."

Sam felt a shiver rack through his body as he took in the two knives now being held threateningly in his direction.

"My dad," Sam started, swallowing back his fear. "My Dad, he's coming…"

Frank gave a snort. "Boy, you ain't been listening to me. Your Daddy up and left you. Left you for good. You think he's gonna care what happens to you? You don't think he's gonna thank me for taking care of what he didn't have the guts to do himself? Relief is what he's gonna feel. Relief that he don't have you to deal with, so goddamn pathetic, slowing him down."

"No, that's not true." Sam refused to give up hope.

"Your dad, he as good as served you to me on a platter boy, just begging me to do him a favour. You think he's gonna give a dime that you ain't around no more? You think he's even gonna notice?" Frank snarled, enjoying the look of uncertainty on the boy's face.

"Now me, I appreciate you, I can see your qualities boy. You and me, we're gonna have some fun together, I can just feel it, but first, I got a little business that needs tending to." Frank looked down at the patch of blood welling damply on the leg of his blue jeans. "Now, don't be going anywhere will ya." He sneered before hooking both knives into the belt at his waist and turning to leave the room.

At the doorway, Frank turned back around, unable to resist a final taunt. "Hey boy, it's just you 'nd me now. Don't be trying nothin' you understand, 'cause there ain't no one to hear you scream, ain't nowhere you can go that I won't find ya, ya hear me boy? You're mine now."

Sam watched as the door slammed closed, relieved to be alone, even if it was only for a short while.

**-o-**

Frank felt his steps lighten despite his injury. He felt an overwhelming sense of achievement with what he'd accomplished this night.

Maybe this one, he thought, was a keeper.

It was hard to leave the boy, for even a moment, but rewards came to those who waited, he reminded himself, knowing that he had to be patient. He was drenched and muddy from his time outside and his wounds needed tending to. The boy could wait; he wasn't going anywhere, not anytime soon.

Usually he was forced to deny himself, like an addict going without, but this time he was determined not to let fear get the better of him. This time he wanted more. Damn boy was as good as a runaway, no reason he couldn't stay at least a few days, maybe even a few weeks if he played his cards right. It made sense to keep the boy for longer, at least until he grew tired of him. The kid had fire in him and breaking him would be slow, but god, so so good. Breaking them was one of his favorite parts. Watching as the fight left their bodies. Much later, when there was nothing left, he'd watch the light leave the boy's eyes.

Frank snapped himself out of his musings as he reached the bathroom, quickly shedding his clothes. Right now, a hot shower was his priority, and then he'd get to making some preparations.

**-o-**

Dean jerked awake with a groan. _Damn cave and its friggin' hard floor_, he thought, as his body protested the movement. God, he hated camping, give him a crappy motel room any day.

Thoughts of his brother slipped into his mind. He'd be the first to admit that the little brat could be a pest sometimes, but it just didn't sit right with him that Sammy wasn't with them. Truthfully, he wasn't used to spending much time outside of school away from his brother. Sammy was just always there, tagging along, underfoot, but always there nonetheless. It was just kind of something he took for granted – until it was all pulled away.

Sammy being separated from them made him uneasy, and regardless of what his dad said, he couldn't just make that feeling go away.

It had stopped raining, Dean noticed, looking out beyond the cave's entrance. It was still dark though, and he doubted that he'd slept for more than a few hours. The sun wasn't even making a pretence of rising yet, but he got restlessly to his feet anyway.

He took the few steps to the mouth of the cave and peered out into the darkness. The smell of damp earth assaulted his senses, and the forest had that fresh cleansed feeling that only comes after a heavy rain. Everything was still and silent, but instead of feeling peaceful he just found the quiet atmosphere eerie and unsettling. God, give him some blaring rock music any day over this oppression.

"You planning on sleeping anymore tonight?" John's voice stretched across the darkness.

Dean turned in surprise, thinking his movements had been undetected. "No," he answered on a sigh.

"Nothing I say is gonna make any difference, is it?"

"No Sir."

"Might as well grab the gear, then we'll head out." John stood up slowly and stretched. "Although it's still too goddamn early if you ask me. Sun won't be up for at least another couple of hours."

Dean smiled at his dad's grumblings, just happy that he didn't have to plead his case for making an early start and getting back to Sammy.

**-o-**

Sam lay trembling in his own little puddle of mud and water as he stared at the closed door. There wasn't a spot on his body that didn't ache. He was also cold; the type of cold that seeps into you bones and touches your soul.

He listened to the footsteps retreating away from the door and wondered how much time he had. How long it would be before the manager returned.

For the first time he took stock of what was in the room – of what he could use to aid his escape. Of what he could use as a weapon. As far as he could see, the room served no purpose other than what he was being held for. Sickness rolled through his stomach at the mere thought of what the manager was planning. He'd heard about stuff like that. He read the newspapers, saw the stories on TV. He knew about all the kids that went missing each year, vanished, never to be found.

Thankful that at least his feet weren't tied, he used his legs and shoulder to push himself into a sitting position. He had to wait for a minute for the room to stop spinning and right itself before he could continue.

He heard the shower start running and knew he didn't have too much time. He scrambled backwards on his ass until he hit the wall. Then, using his legs he braced his back against the wall and pushed himself upright. His muscles screamed at him, but he didn't give up, didn't even take a breath, not until he was finally standing.

The shower was still running, and he looked frantically around the room. He needed something sharp, capable of cutting through the tape binding his wrists. The solid timber furnishings were worn with age and he was more likely to get a splinter than he was to get enough friction to wear through the tape. There was nothing else. The room was barren of any other possessions.

His heart sunk and he wanted to crawl into the corner of the room and disappear. Wanted to pretend he was some place else, anywhere but here. He hurt so bad that he just wanted it all to go away.

Then he remembered the look on the manager's face, the knife in his hand, and he knew he had to find a way out.

Dean might give him grief about his freakishly long skinny arms and legs, but maybe this time they could be used to his advantage. It had been a while since he'd tried this – pulling his body through his linked arms, without unclasping his hands. Well, unclasping his hands wouldn't be a problem this time, but he was bound at the wrists which restricted his scope of movement even more.

Pushing his shoulders back as far as they would go, he stretched his arms out before pulling them in close to his back and hooking his hands under his ass. At first he didn't think it was going to be possible to thread his body through his arms, but he breathed through the pain, willing his limbs to stretch as he curved his body through his locked arms.

He swore he felt his shoulder pop, but he didn't stop, didn't even hesitate. This was his only option and he'd pull both arms out of their sockets before he'd give up. Finally his linked arms were under the back of his knees and he took a moment to stabilise his balance. One foot after the other, he stepped through the circle made by his arms, until he was standing straight again, bound hands now in front of him.

Once his teeth had worked loose the end of the gaffer tape, his mouth made quick work of peeling away the rest. He didn't pause, didn't take the time to rejoice over his success. He'd only conquered the first step and freedom was still too far away.

Creeping over to the door, he listened for movement on the other side, relieved to still hear the sounds of the shower running. The manager needed more than hot soapy water to make him clean, Sam thought, hoping the man wasn't planning on leaving the bathroom any time soon.

He twisted the door knob and for once luck was on his side as it turned under his hand. He opened it slowly, looking down the length of the hallway before stepping out of the room. He was still alone, at least for now.

He crept down the hallway, as silently as he could, past the occupied bathroom, barely daring to breathe as he passed the closed door. He half expected this to all be a test, a game that the sick manager was playing with him. He expected a hand to come out and grab him at the last minute, for fleshy arms to pull him in close and to feel the warm breath tinged with laughter as he strained to move away.

He half expected his efforts to be futile.

**-o-**

As the water started to cool, Frank rinsed the last of the soap suds from his body. He felt rejuvenated as all traces of the mud and cold washed down the drain. He probably should have saved some hot water, he belatedly thought, to wash the boy. A kid like that, so angelic looking, deserved to be clean, and he couldn't help but picture the boy, all laid out, freshly bathed, his skin flushed and rosy from the warm water.

He didn't want to wait.

Stepping out of the shower he grabbed his towel off the rack, wrapping it around his shoulders and letting it soak up the moisture. He stood in front of the mirror, wiping a hand across the fogged up glass. His reflection stared back at him, an image he barely recognised. His eyes were alight with anticipation and for the first time in what felt like forever, he looked alive. Gone was the sour expression he was greeted with at the start of each day, when he had little to look forward to, replaced now with a throb of scarcely restrained excitement.

He wanted this to be perfect.

Picking up the can of shaving cream, he squirted a liberal amount into the palm of his hand before smoothing it along his jaw line. He picked up his razor and let it glide across his skin, following the contours of his face. There'd be no harsh stubble to mark soft skin.

Yes, he thought, this would be perfect.

**-o-**

Sam kept moving.

Pain and fear where pushed to the back of his mind as he focused on just the one thing – escape.

This wasn't just his second chance, but also his last. He was running on near empty now and everything he'd been through threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted his brother and dad so badly that he felt as if it was clawing away at him inside. _Why did they leave him? _

He wanted to tell his dad that he'd never complain again, never whine, never question what was ordered. He'd keep up – he could walk faster, walk further, carry more. He just needed another chance.

A shiver worked its way through his body. He just needed one more chance to prove himself!

He entered the kitchen, glancing around as he headed towards the back door and freedom. As his hand met the cold door handle he gave a silent prayer that it too had been left unlocked, that maybe things were finally going his way. The latch clicked open and a flood of relief rushed through him as it swung open to reveal the cold air outside.

He was poised in the doorway when he saw it, the phone hanging on the wall within arms reach. He hesitated, fighting his instinct to run even as he reached for it, pulling the phone from its cradle. The dial tone sounded almost too loud and he held it closer to his body and waited for a moment to see if he'd been heard. His fingers shook as he punched in the familiar number that his dad had made him memorise many years before.

He held the phone to his ear, listening to the ring tone as he waited desperately for it to be picked up at the other end.

"Pastor Jim?" He whispered as soon as it was answered.

"Sammy? Sammy Winchester, is that you?"

Sam felt like crying at the familiar voice. "Please, I need …you have to help me, please, I'm at the…" he looked up at the neon sign in the distance, "Drakesbrook Motel."

"Sam, what's happened? Where's your dad, where's Dean?"

"Please…" He went still and silent with fright as he heard the bathroom door open.

Sam watched as the motel manager stepped into the hallway. As they locked eyes, he felt all the blood rush from his face and he gripped the edge of the door frame to steady himself.

"Please" he whispered again.

The handset fell, cord stretched and uncoiled as the phone banged against the wall.

_To be continued._

**-o-**

**Note:** Just so you know, getting into Frank's thoughts and expressing them was not easy for me!

**Reviews are love!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: **My apologies for the delay in updating - the flu decided to strike me down, and as my beta reader will attest, my brain slows down somewhat under the influence of flu medication. Again, thanks to my wonderful beta, Supernaturaldh, who has been a wealth of help in getting my words organised to match my thoughts. To everyone reading and reviewing - thank you so much. Many a kind word has motivated me to keep writing, so thank you for sticking with me!

**Negligence**

**Chapter 6**

Frank stepped out of the bathroom, unbuttoned shirt hanging open to expose the scattering of coarse hair on his chest. His unbuckled belt hung loosely around his hips, allowing his ample girth to spill over the top of his jeans, but he made no effort to disguise his excessive waist. He'd had no complaints, he thought, images of past conquests flashing through his mind.

As his bare feet hit the worn carpet in the hallway, a cool breeze blew across his warm skin, causing his shirt to billow out around his body and an involuntary shiver to course through him. He turned towards the kitchen and saw the boy near the open door in an instant, the look of pure panic clear on the kid's face even from a distance.

Fresh anger engulfed him and he clenched his hands into fists as the red hot fury built.

He wanted to reach right out and grab the boy. Pick him up and shake him until he pleaded for mercy, until he begged for forgiveness. His hands itched to choke him until the last breath gasped from his lips, until there was no fight left.

He watched as the phone fell from the boys grasp, the sound of it hitting the wall echoing in the room. Never before had one of his boys shown such a flagrant disregard for his authority. He wouldn't tolerate it, not now, not ever. He thought he'd been clear with the boy, letting him know what was expected, and that didn't include sneaking around the house and touching things that didn't belong to him. No, the boy was showing him disrespect, plain and simple.

Seems he needed to teach this boy some respect, beat him into submission, until the kid understood his place and just who the hell was calling the shots. The boy would learn his place – just as soon as he got a serve of some goddamn discipline.

He clenched his teeth as the anger continued to build, and he eased the worn leather belt from his jeans, his eyes never leaving the boy. He wound one end of the belt around his hand and pulled the leather taut.

He'd teach the boy a lesson. A lesson he'd never forget.

He slowly advanced towards the kid.

**-o-**

Sam stood still, his feet rooted to the floor as pure terror invaded his body. The belt snapped in the man's hands as the leather was pulled tight. Seemingly in slow motion, the man moved towards him, each step heavy and sure. The belt snapped again as the leather flexed, and it was all the incentive he needed to shock him out of his stupor and spur him into action.

He turned towards the open door, bolting through it. The wind whipped the hair off his face as he lurched out into the night, remembering this time to keep his body close to the side of the buildings for cover. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he knew he was being watched. He could feel it. Dull, beady eyes bored into him as he sought to put some distance between himself and the motel.

He stumbled, crying out as he fell to his knees. He cursed under his breath, pushing himself back up to his feet again, determined to keep moving, unwilling to give up. He held a hand to his stomach, pulling his torn shirt closed as pain radiated out from the cut running down from his chest. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound, warmer than the water on his damp clothes, thick and sticky. He swallowed down his nausea and focused on his goal, putting one foot in front of another.

Escape.

He tried to control his fear as the desperate need to keep moving became more of a struggle with each step. Panic washed over him in waves as he continued to stumble over loose gravel, his steps noisy and uneven, and every few seconds he couldn't help but shoot a quick glance over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

He used to believe that fear of the unknown was the scariest, being frightened of what lurked under his bed or hid in his closet. Things he'd never seen but feared existed in dark places in the dead of night. His dad had given him a .45 and told him to face his fears, and he had, with Dean at his side.

But this was so much worse than those unexplained fears. Too real to be just a nightmare. There was no one here shaking him awake, whispering soothing words, tucking him back under the covers. He'd come to rely on a reassuring presence, his Dad, his brother, someone there, beside him, making sure everything was alright, keeping him safe. He knew now, that he had taken that comfort for granted - now that the fear was real and tangible, and he was well and truly, all alone. _This time, were they coming back for him?_

**-o-**

Frank watched the shape of the boy disappearing around the side of the building and felt fresh anger wash over him. It seemed the game plan had changed.

The heat from the shower left his flush skin and he pulled his shirt closed against the cold night, buttoning it quickly as he stood at the back door and stared out into the darkness. He had decisions to make.

Hearing the dial tone on the phone he slowly lifted the handset back into the cradle, wiping away the smear of blood that decorated the plastic. He wondered briefly who the kid had called, what he'd said, how much trouble the kid had brought on him. He punched a fist into the wall as the implications finally hit home. Damn kid had brought him nothing but trouble so far and god dammit, he wanted the kid to pay.

No, this time he'd strip the boy bare and truss him up, good and tight. This time he would show no mercy. The time for fun and games had gone; the memory of what he'd wanted to do, taking things slow and sweet, fading as new plans started to unfold. This time, the rules might have changed, but he was still in control.

With renewed energy he moved towards his bedroom, sliding his belt back into place as he walked. He finished dressing quickly, eager to set his plans in motion.

Reaching into the far recess of the closet, he pulled out his pump action shotgun, the one his father had given him in his early teenage years. _'Christ boy, you couldn't hit the side of a barn'_ his old man would yell at him over and over again, until he'd wanted to take the goddamn shotgun and hold it to his father's head and pull the trigger. His father was dead now though, and good riddance to him. He hoped he was rotting in hell, where the sadistic bastard belonged.

With the shotgun swinging casually in one hand, he went back into the kitchen and placed it on the table. Shrugging back on his still damp coat he checked that the pockets still contained the rope and tape before grabbing a fresh flashlight from the top cupboard and adding it to his supplies. Finally, he opened a drawer and removed his ammunition, deftly feeding four new shells into the empty magazine and one into the chamber before locking the gun closed.

Shotgun in hand, he moved to the back door, looking out for any signs of movement.

"You better hide boy, hide real good, 'cause Frank's coming for you," he yelled. "You hear me boy?"

He stood on the top step and looked around, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of the boy. Aiming the shotgun high, he pulled the trigger, letting the sound of the warning shot echo across the grounds. Pumping the shotgun, he loaded a new cartridge into the chamber. Now, he was primed and ready, ready for the boy.

He let the door swing closed behind him.

This time, there would be no escape. No chance to find freedom. He wouldn't allow it.

"Let the hunt begin," he whispered.

**-o-**

Jim leafed through his address book until he found the contact numbers for John Winchester. With worry resting heavy on his heart he dialled the number in his book, hoping it was still current. He hadn't spoken to his friend for a few months, but God knows, the man could find trouble, even when he wasn't' looking for it, as if bad luck didn't head his way often enough.

He bit back his disappointment when his call went through to voice-mail. After leaving a short urgent message for John to return his call he hung up, already moving around the house and collecting his gear.

John's youngest boy sounded distressed and his intuition told him something was amiss.

Sammy wouldn't phone, except as a last resort. The mere fact that Sam called, and not Dean, had his heckles rising. He knew, the older boy guarded his brother with his life, and damn it, if Dean wasn't calling, then he shuddered to think what may have happened.

A couple of phone calls later and he had the address of the motel Sam mentioned, hoping that it was the right one, a couple of counties over.

"Only one way to find out," he muttered to himself as he grabbed his car keys off the table and headed for the door.

**-o-**

Sam crawled into the small ditch at the side of the road, too afraid to run across the vast expanse of open air that offered him no cover. He'd made that mistake once already and was too quickly caught. No, this time he needed to hide. He couldn't outrun the man, he was hurting too bad. His vision was blurry and every step he took was a struggle just to remain upright. Pain radiated through his stomach, joining the pounding in his head and the stinging in his hands.

Hiding was his only chance. He knew the motel manager wouldn't let him go, so he needed to stay out of sight so that he couldn't be found. Maybe then, his dad and Dean would be back or Pastor Jim would come for him. Maybe they'd find him first. _Maybe._

He just needed to hide.

The ditch ran the length of the road and he lay down flat on his stomach, sinking into the mud and water that flowed along the trench, letting it wrap around his body. He used his hands and feet to claw his way along the ditch, moving further away from the motel, inch by inch. It was slow going and painful, but every time he thought of stopping, thought of giving up, the motel managers words echoed through his head, "_ain't nowhere you can go that I won't find ya."_

He pushed the pain aside and kept moving. The mud caked him now, drenching his already chilled boy and adding to the weight he carried. His exhausted limbs struggled to maintain any momentum but he forced himself to keep going, just a little bit further. He needed to find a place where the ditch was deeper or offered a little more cover, only then would he allow himself to rest.

The familiar sound of a shotgun being fired compounded his fear. Blood pumped hard through his body as his heart rate soared, and he found that extra burst of energy to move a little faster. He scampered, legs and arms scraping over rough stones as he scrambled to be anywhere but here.

The large branch that had fallen across the ditch was too heavy for him to move and he was too afraid to leave the ditch and go around it. Tears flowed freely down his face as defeat washed over him. It was like a kick in the face as one more obstacle was thrown his way. With no other option in sight, he wedged his body alongside the branch, letting the smaller twigs cover him. He laid his head on his arm to keep his face out of the water, and tried to still the tremors racking through his body.

He wondered how far away Pastor Jim was, would he come?

Footsteps on gravel crunched nearby and he held his breath until they moved away. It was the motel manager prowling around, he knew it. Could hear the man muttering as he walked, searching pedantically for what he couldn't find. _Wouldn't_ find, Sam hoped.

"I know you're out here somewhere boy, but ya can't hide forever." Sam cringed at the words, praying that the man would move on as the glow from a flashlight cast across the area.

Sam willed his body to sink further into the mud.

"Ya testing my patience boy! Things will go better if ya just come on out, maybe we can talk things through, come to some kind of understanding." Frank probed the area with his eyes, looking for that one clue that would show him which way the boy had headed.

**-o-**

The river was swollen with flood-waters and John brought the car to a stop at the edge of the causeway. He gave Dean a quick glance before getting out of the car and walking to the water's edge.

At times like this he wished the Impala was a little higher off the ground. Water flowed over the concrete section of road that was battling with the river running over its surface. Now that he was closer he could see that it wasn't that deep, just fast flowing. At least the weight of the Impala would help him keep the vehicle steady as he navigated the thin strip of road.

In all honesty, he'd rather wait. Let the water die down a little to make the crossing safer, but a quick glance at his eldest and he knew he'd have a battle on his hands at the mere suggestion.

He stood still for a moment, watching the water, observing the current and flow, planning how he'd make the crossing.

"Dad?" Dean questioned, eager just to get going.

"Just give me a moment son. We need to do this right, or not at all."

"No, we need to get back." Dean persisted.

"Don't push it Dean. You know; if we'd waited 'til after dawn, the river would have gone down and this wouldn't have been a problem. Now, you want to get back, I understand that, but putting the Impala in the river 'cause we didn't do this right ain't gonna get us there any faster." John watched the water for another moment before heading purposefully back to the car.

Dean followed silently, trying to curb his impatience. Something wasn't right, he could sense it. Guilt gnawed at him as he remembered how he'd left his brother with scarcely a second thought. How they'd driven away without looking back. How could they have done that? Christ, Sammy was just a kid, and he was supposed to take care of him, be there, watching his back.

He flipped open his Dad's cell, disappointed to see that they still had no reception. No way of calling to check on his brother.

_What had he done?_

**-o-**

Sam felt his eyes start to drift closed even as he concentrated all his will on keeping them open. He knew he needed to stay alert. The motel manager was still making regular circuits of the area, searching, looking, but so far he'd managed to remain undetected. A couple of times he'd nearly jumped up to run as the beam of the flashlight had passed over his hiding place, but when the footsteps didn't come any closer he'd given a silent prayer of thanks that his legs had been so slow to react.

In fact, he could barely feel his legs anymore. Like the rest of his body, they were wet and muddy, fine tremors running through them as his body battled against the weather. He wondered if the cut on his stomach had stopped bleeding, knowing that his dad would be pissed that he hadn't kept the wound clean. It didn't even sting anymore, not unless he moved, but just the memory of how it happened was enough to make him want to hurl.

He felt like he'd been struggling to keep awake for far too long, and he wasn't sure he could do it anymore. The sun would be up soon, already he could see the darkness slowly dissipating, light creeping in to announce the start of a new day. He'd just let his eyes closed for a few moments, he wasn't going to sleep, he was just going to rest his eyes for a few minutes.

**-o-**

God, he wanted to shoot something, Frank thought, as he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and aimed into the distance. He just needed a glimpse of the kid to be able to bring him down. He knew the boy couldn't have gone too far. The memory of the knife in his hand as he slid it down the boys guts, opening him up was fresh in his mind. Now, he wished he'd cut slower, deeper, drawn a thick line of blood and let the boy bleed out. He wished he'd hit him harder, kicked him longer. Hell, he wished he'd made the boy experience real pain. But still, the kid was injured and he knew it had to have slowed him down. He couldn't have gone far, not in his condition.

Then he saw it, nearly invisible amongst the litter strewn gravel. A large drop of blood - the red liquid contrasting vividly along the edge of a piece of trash. He bent down and brought the beam of his flashlight closer, putting the shotgun down before reaching out a fingertip and touching the dark liquid. The blood was wet and tacky and he wiped his finger down the side of his jeans to remove the stain from his skin. It was what he'd been looking for. The starting point he needed.

He let his flashlight fan across the ground, looking for another drop; evidence of which way the boy had headed. Then he saw it, another stain on the ground nearby. His frustrations paled as renewed hope surged through him. He picked up the shotgun and stood tall again, his flashlight aimed at the ground in front of him. Now he had a trail to follow.

This was it. The game was coming to an end, and he felt a brief stab of disappointment knowing it would be over all too soon. But time was running short and he had to finish this. He'd so wanted to keep this one, play with him, but the kid was trouble. More trouble than he was worth. Where he came from, more could be found, boys that were easier to manage, easier to control. They might lack that extra spark that so attracted him to this boy, but each was unique in their own special way.

He felt the warmth flood his body as his anticipation grew. He knew the boy was near, lying in wait for him. He'd have his fun, fast but sweet, however it was the punishment he was looking forward to the most. Taking his revenge. He wanted to see the unmasked fear on the boys face as he cried out in terror, knowing his final fate. He wanted to watch as the boy took his last breath, looking deep into his eyes as the life left his body and death moved in. He couldn't help but wonder if the boy would go quietly now, or would he fight til the end?

**-o-**

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	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** I'm blown away by the support – thank you! Each and every review means so much, just knowing that people are reading and commenting is fantastic.

My beta, Supernaturaldh is still being overworked and underpaid, so many thanks for her efforts. I continue to tweak things after she sends my work back, so I'm sure I'm driving her slowly insane.

**Negligence**

**Chapter 7**

Pastor Jim watched as the sun started to slowly rise on the horizon, chasing away the dark of night and bringing in a new day. Usually, dawn was his favorite time, but today his heart was filled with trepidation.

He tried to curb his misgivings as the telephone call with young Sam replayed through his mind. Possible scenarios warred with each other but he shied away from some of the darker thoughts that flittered through his mind. He tried to remind himself about how resilient the Winchester's were, how resourceful, but it was their lack of contact that worried him the most. The fact that John had failed to return his call didn't bode well.

He was making good time, despite the few unscheduled short breaks forced upon him. He'd had to wait a few minutes for some road barriers to be removed and a couple of the routes to be re-opened after the rain had forced their closure, but otherwise the roads were clear. It was like God was watching from above, expediting his travel as he sought to reach his destination as quickly as humanly possible. He gave a silent prayer of thanks, a prayer of hope, as he held on to his faith with steadfast determination.

With a sure foot on the pedal, he drove as fast as he dared; keeping a diligent look out for the turn-off towards the motel, knowing now that he was getting close. Just a few more miles and he hoped his prayers would be granted and not his worst fears answered.

**-o-**

The Impala took each corner with ease, hugging the road as it sped towards its destination. John sighed tiredly as his fingers held the wheel, lack of sleep starting to catch up with him. He could feel the tension in his eldest, and although he wanted to deny it, he could feel the tendrils of anxiety start to creep upon his own shoulders. He felt an unnecessary urgency to return to their motel, to see with his own two eyes that Dean's fears were unfounded. Maybe then they could put this sorry fiasco behind them and finally they could both get some much needed rest.

He pushed a little harder on the pedal, feeling the freshly unleashed power pushing the car forward even faster. There were no other cars on the road and he let his cautions relax, more pressing matters taking precedence. Just a few more miles to go, and they'd be back at the motel, see Sam all safe and sound, probably still asleep, drooling on his pillow as he burrowed under the covers. Maybe they'd wake him, go get some breakfast before packing up and heading out again. God knows, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed himself, but with Dean wound so tight, he'd be lucky to get his shut-eye anytime soon.

Although he applauded Dean his devotion towards his brother, he couldn't see any real reason for him to be so concerned about Sam. Hell, at the end of the day, Sam was a far sight safer back at the motel that he was traipsing around the woods in the dead of night with them. It'd been the responsible thing to do, leaving his youngest behind. He'd spent so long instilling the responsibility for Sam onto Dean, even when Dean's young shoulders were barely more than a child himself, that maybe now Dean didn't know when to just switch off.

He heaved a weary sigh as he silently acknowledged his own shortcomings in raising his boys. At the end of the day, he knew that he was partly to blame, but he'd had little choice, needing to know that his sons could depend on each other and that Dean, as the eldest, took this task seriously.

Maybe now, with the boys getting older, he needed to consider cutting those ties a little, giving the boys a little more independence, allowing Sam the opportunity to grow up and be more competent in his own right. Maybe he was stifling that trait in his youngest, making him soft, not allowing him to spread his wings and fend for himself. Dean was always there, close by, and rarely was Sam allowed the opportunity to learn from his mistakes.

No, soon as he was back, he'd have to think about instigating some changes. He couldn't afford to have Dean distracted on a hunt, his thoughts more focused on his brother than on the task at hand. Changes had to be made, and now was as good a time as any.

**-o-**

Frank stopped at the edge of the ditch and let his flashlight beam drift along the narrow length. Even though the rain had stopped, water still pooled at the bottom, the contents forming a rancid swill of mud and god only knows what else. That the boy was here somewhere, of that he had no doubt. At the bottom of a hole where he no doubt belonged, he thought, his temper simmering as he continued his search. Christ Almighty, when he found the boy he'd be tempted to throw him to the bottom of a deep hole himself and just be done with it. But no, he took a calming breath and reined back his temper; there'd be time enough for that later. First though, the boy had to pay his dues. Make amends for all the trouble he'd caused. Then, seeing as the kid was so keen on holes, he'd let him dig his goddamn own.

He had to admit, as angry as the boy had made him, and exhausted as he was starting to feel, the night had been exhilarating. For too long he'd been going about his everyday chores, trying to conform to what was expected. He'd been stifling his own needs and desires, quietly rotting away in silence.

He recognised that maybe the time had come to move on, start afresh someplace new. That phone call the boy had made could bring a whole lot of trouble his way. Trouble best avoided. There were too many questions he couldn't answer and if the authorities started digging around; a whole lot of trouble would come his way.

It was tempting, to bundle the kid up and just make a cut and run for it. He wanted so much to do that. He could have the boy, take his time with him and dispose of him later on down the track when he'd served his usefulness. His body throbbed at the thought, of long nights no longer lonely. But reality reared its ugly head, and deep down, he knew it would be a mistake he could ill afford. He hadn't got this far by making such basic errors in judgement. By letting his desires over rule his rationality.

No, his options were limited. He needed to find the boy and take his pleasures quick. He needed to move on, find someplace secluded to dispose of the boy before he caused him anymore trouble. His possessions were few and he had little of any true value, so packing would take next to no time. He could be out of town before any one even realised he was gone.

He started to follow the line of the ditch as it wound away from the motel. He could see now, where the mud had been disturbed, the dawning light making everything so much easier to see. It wouldn't be long now until the sun climbed higher in the sky and it was fully light.

At first glance he could have missed the boy, lying prone, covered in mud, at the bottom of the ditch. The boy was dead still, not even twitching as he approached. For a moment he felt a quiver of disappointment at the prospect that the boy was already dead, that he'd been denied inflicting that punishment on the boy himself. But as he got closer, he could see the even rise and fall of the boy's chest. A grin spread across his face at the sight before him. He couldn't believe it; it looked like the boy was asleep. This time it had almost been too easy.

He switched off the torch and put it back in his pocket. He wouldn't be needing it anymore, not today. Keeping a secure grip on the shotgun, he took a jumping step and landed in the bottom of the shallow ditch, right alongside the boy. With barely a pause he reached out and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck, yanking him clear of the tree branch he was using for cover.

His breath rasped in his throat as he felt the boy jolt awake. "You're mine now boy," he whispered against the boys neck as he pulled him into his arms.

**-o-**

In a heartbeat, Sam felt all the air leave his lungs. He could feel the body behind him, holding him close. He felt suffocated by the terror that assaulted him as an arm wrapped around his chest and pulled him in even tighter.

Warm breath ghosted over his neck, sending chills down his spine. He could have cursed himself for falling asleep, for letting down his guard, even if only for a moment. It had cost him more than he wanted to imagine. His dad would be right to be disappointed.

He could hear the motel manager panting near his ear. "Told ya boy that you couldn't hide; that I'd find ya."

"No," Sam cringed away inwardly, desperate to deny the whispered words.

"Boy, ya ran me a merry chase, and I gotta give it to ya, ya got spunk kid, but the time for playing games, its over now, and I gotta tell ya, you been testing my patience boy."

Sam wanted to scream out against the unfairness of it all. He wanted to know 'why?' What had he done to deserve this?

As he was dragged away from his hiding place he cried out in pain at the harsh movements. It was only the strong arm wrapped around him that kept him upright, and he couldn't find the strength to pull away.

"Please, no," he murmured as he felt his feet being dragged in the mud.

"Save it boy, there'll be time enough for pleading later." The manager retorted; tightening the vice like arm wrapped around him.

God, he wanted so badly to run, to fight back, but his body had other ideas. It refused to cooperate and instead of struggling his body remained lax in the man's grip. Instead of escaping he just concentrated on remaining conscious, of not crying out in pain. He willed himself to deny the man that small satisfaction - the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Roughly he was pulled clear of the ditch, and it was almost too much. His vision darkened and for a moment he was sure he was going to black out. His head fell forward and he tried to draw in deep lungfuls of air as the ground tilted beneath his feet. His world spun viciously, twisting and turning until it was only the solid force at his back that held him steady.

He felt himself being jerked fully upright until his feet were barely touching the ground, and then he was released and thrust forwards. He fell to his hands and knees, unable to support his own weight. Agony tore through him, but he bit back the scream that started to escape.

"Move." Frank demanded.

Sam looked up, eyes brimming with tears, to see a shotgun barrel pointed at him.

It took a moment for the order to reach his muddled brain and his body was even slower to react.

The end of the shotgun prodded him in the shoulder. "I said move boy."

Tears ran down his face as he drew on all his remaining strength to push himself to his feet, feeling his body sway as he struggled to remain standing.

"Don't just stand there boy. I said move." The shotgun prodded him again, the force nearly sending him back to his knees.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he took small steps forward, the end of the shotgun barrel never far away. As each step took them closer to the motel his fear grew and he knew that this time he had run out of options. The tears were flowing freely now and he made no attempt to rein them in. He didn't think he could stop them even if he tried.

**-o-**

The distant sound of a car approaching had Frank ducking for cover, sending the boy in front of him sprawling to the ground with a well aimed shove in the small of his back. They were close to the motel buildings now, and he grabbed the boy by the collar of his jacket, dragging him the final few feet to the side of the buildings.

Seems the roads had opened up sooner than he'd been expecting and he knew, where one car came, more would follow. He'd need to take care of business quick and get the hell out of town before anyone came looking for the kid.

He crouched beside the building, letting the early morning shadows conceal his position. He remained still, waiting for the car to head on by, not willing to take any chances on being seen. He'd come too far to loose everything now. A little bit more time was all he needed.

The boy whimpered at his feet, squirming in a lame attempt to regain his freedom. If he'd had more time he would have taken some joy in this, watching the feeble efforts, giving the kid a slice of hope before pulling it away.

Sam heard the familiar rumble of the car in the distance. Raising his eyes to stare at the man, he couldn't help but plead. "Please!"

"Shut your mouth boy or I'll close if for you." Frank snarled as the boy muttered his desperate appeal.

"Please, just let me go. I won't tell, I promise." Sam continued, straining to push himself up.

"I said shut up!" Frank reached out and slapped the boy across the face, sending him floundering back to the ground.

Fishing in his pocket for the gaffer tape, he retrieved the roll, tearing off a long strip. With barely a pause he bent over the boy and smoothed it across his mouth. Next he grabbed the boy's wrists and clutched them in front of his shaking body. Taking the roll of tape, he wound a long length round and around the thin bones until he felt sure the boy was secure. The kid's glazed eyes rolled in his head, and even though the boy looked like a strong puff of wind would blow him over, he wouldn't risk making the same mistake twice. He pushed the boy down until he was lying flat on his back and then he wrapped the boy's ankles as well. Not even Houdini could get out of that one, he thought, as he inspected his handiwork.

Finally, he again had the kid right where he wanted him. He let his eyes drift over the boy, lying so still, so perfectly vulnerable, and he felt an overwhelming urge just to grab the kid and make a run for it right now and damn any witnesses. But the boy was like a prize he didn't want to give up, didn't want to take the risk of losing. He'd come too far to just abandon the kid and let all his dreams fade away. He'd earned this. He damn well deserved it. A sweet reward for all his perseverance and persistence.

When the familiar car pulled into the parking lot, wheels spinning on the gravel, rather than going on past, he wanted to raise up his shotgun and take aim. He wanted to yell at the injustice of it all, to be given such a gift but be unable to unwrap it.

His hand trembled and he just couldn't resist, seeing the boy just staring up at him, eyes wide and pure. He let his fingers run down the boy's chest in a light caress, feeling the heart pound beneath his hand as he slid it under the boy's jacket. "Shhhh," he whispered as the kid moaned, leaning in low over the boy as his hand skirted under the torn t-shirt. He wished they were in another place, another time.

But time was precious and they had company now.

**-o-**

It was the Impala, Sam was sure of it, the familiar engine rumble so unique and familiar. He heard the slamming of car doors, and twisted his head to the side, straining to see past the man. A heavy hand kept him firmly in place though, and he could do little more than squirm on the rough gravel.

Despite the warm hand on his body and stale breath near his face, he felt the hope surge through him. _They'd come back._

"Don't you go getting any ideas now boy, they ain't gonna see ya over here." Frank panted against his neck as if reading his thoughts.

Sam shook his head in denial.

"They're gonna see you gone and figure it's a blessing in disguise. You mark my words boy; they ain't gonna waste two minutes looking for ya." Frank ran his hand across soft skin as the words vile words fell smoothly from his mouth.

Sam tried to twist away as he screamed behind the tape sealing his mouth.

'_Here I am,' _he wanted to shout, but the words wouldn't come. He was as good as mute, and overcome with fear that the man was right, that they wouldn't come looking for him.

Just one more chance, that's all he needed, to prove them wrong, to make his Dad proud. He didn't care what it took, he'd do whatever his Dad asked and he'd do it without complaining or dragging his feet. He could be the son his Dad wanted.

'_Please!' _The silent scream fell on deaf ears.

**-o-**

**Note**: The next chapter will be up in just a couple of days – I'm just doing some final tweaking!

**Reviews are love.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Saying thank you for the reviews and support doesn't really seem sufficient, but a big THANK YOU! I also have to give thanks for all the ideas I have pinched from the posted reviews, they sometimes open my eyes to plot directions I hadn't even thought of.

Yes, praise to my beta, Supernaturaldh, who is still hanging in there and keeping me on track!

**Negligence**

**Chapter 8**

Dean opened the door to the motel room, calling his brother's name as the door swung back on its hinges. Without breaking stride he moved across the room, quickly checking the bathroom, before coming to a standstill.

John stood at the door and let his eyes glance around the room, immediately noting the absence of his youngest. "He's probably just gone out for a walk or something. You know your brother, never could follow a simple order."

Dean looked at his Dad with skepticism. "No Dad, I don't think so. He wouldn't leave the motel room, not without good reason."

"Sam would find reason enough to justify what he wanted to do; you know what he's like. I'm sure he'll come bouncing through the door any minute, red faced at getting caught out." John justified, even as he felt his own unease growing as he took in the empty room.

Dean wanted to deny that accusation flat out, but truth be told, Sam could be a sneaky little brat when he set his mind to it. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was 'off' though, but he just couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was. One thing he did feel sure of, Sam hadn't just gone off for a simple walk down the road, not when he would've been expecting them back anytime now. No, Sam was too smart for that.

The sound of another car pulling up impelled both Winchester's back outside. The sight of Pastor Jim climbing out of the car filled them both with dread.

"Could've saved me the trip if you'd just answered your phone John." Jim greeted the two men, a wide smile of relief on his face as he looked around for young Sam.

"What?" John fished his phone out of his pocket, sparring it a quick glance, only to note that he still had no reception. Damn thing was useless more often than not, he thought, thrusting it back deep into his pocket.

"You didn't get my message?" Jim queried, feeling his heart fill with dread as Sam continued to be conspicuous in his absence.

"What message?" John demanded, needing answers.

Jim felt the worry radiating off the other man, but had to ask the question plaguing his mind. "Is Sam not with you?"

John shook his head in silent answer to Jim's question. He felt ready to pull his hair out as his heart sank and harsh reality hit him smack in the face. This wasn't some disobedient stunt being pulled by his youngest, a testing of his boundaries or the flaunting of authority. No, Sam wasn't just off goofing around. Jim was here. His son was missing. And dammit, he didn't have a damn clue what was going on or where to start looking.

"Dammit Jim," he snapped in frustration. "Where the hell is Sam?"

Jim took a deep breath before relaying the details of his brief telephone call with Sam the night before. He saw the color drain from Dean's face as he finished, and not for the first time, he wished he had better news to impart.

**-o-**

Frank looked up as he heard the second car pull up; frustrated at his repeated bad luck. The place was getting a little too crowded for his liking, and he knew the time had come for moving the boy. He felt the small warm body wriggling next to him and he just couldn't bear to let him go, not yet. Hell, he knew it made sense to just finish the kid off, and he would, soon as he'd claimed his prize.

**-o-**

Sam shivered, his skin crawling with revulsion. He tried to twist away from the groping hands, but they wandered over his skin, stroking in patterns as they explored under his shirt. He tried to pry his hands apart, but the bindings held him tight, allowing him no movement at all. He wanted to pull his shirt back down and push those questing hands away, but he had no way of voicing his protest. His moans continued to fall on deaf ears and he could do nothing but twist and squirm as he tried to evade the repulsive touch.

It seemed so unfair, to be able to hear the sound of help in the distance but be unable to call out. To be unable to give even a small signal to draw attention to his plight.

His Dad and Dean were out there somewhere, and he couldn't help but hope that they were looking for him, that soon he'd be found. He had to hold on to that hope, it was all that he had, and he needed to focus on that now.

When the hands stopped their roaming he didn't know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to fear what was to come next.

The hands were rough as they yanked him back to his feet, and he wobbled, bound feet unable to keep him balanced as his head spun at the abrupt change in altitude. He didn't fight when his body toppled sideways, he couldn't even reach out his hands to stop his fall. His knees bucked and he went down hard, shoulder slamming into the gravel as his body came to rest on its side. He panted against the pain, daggers of agony ricocheting through his limbs.

Again he was pulled to his feet, this time shown no mercy as he was tossed over the man's shoulder with careless disregard. His cut chest screamed out at the further abuse and he could feel the warmth of fresh blood as it seeped from the wound and ran across his skin.

His head thumped against the man's back with each step he took, and he closed his eyes to block out the gyrating ground as it shifted and swayed at the edge of his vision. He gagged involuntarily as he fought to keep down the nausea as he swayed backwards and forwards, having no means to still his body.

He wanted release from the pain, to just drift away into the beckoning oblivion, but it was the pain keeping him grounded, refusing to allow him to escape.

**-o-**

"He what?' The words exploded from John's mouth as he stared at his long time friend.

"Calm down John, that's all I know." Pastor Jim laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sammy didn't say much besides the name of the motel, but I figured he wouldn't be calling unless there was some kind of trouble."

Dean could hear the stress in the older man's voice, words not necessary to convey the worry they all felt. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet. Sammy was missing and no amount of standing around talking was going to bring him back.

Jim turned to younger Winchester. "You know your brother Dean, if he was in some kind of trouble, where would he go?"

"He wouldn't - go anywhere I mean. He would've stayed in the room, like I taught him, unless…" Dean turned a troubled look to the two men, unable to finish the sentence as a barrage of 'what ifs' raced through his mind.

'Right, then I say we start in the room and then fan out." Jim announced, turning to enter the motel room.

Dean barely acknowledged the other man's departure, intent on scanning the surrounding area, for what, he wasn't sure. He felt a shiver of unease, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.

Gut instinct told him that they were missing something, and that it was right here, staring them in the face.

And still, Sammy was missing.

**-o-**

Frank dumped his bundle on the bed without ceremony. He was feeling the effects of his exertions, sweat glistening on his forehead, shallow breath panting from his lips. The kid was heavier than he looked – a dead weight as he'd swung uselessly over the breadth of his shoulder, making no effort to ease his burden.

Wide frightened eyes stared back at him, tears leaving trails in the dirt marring the boy's face. The kid looked a wreck, a far cry from the boy he'd coveted only the day before. He'd barely played with his new toy, but already the kid was starting to look like someone else's discarded goods.

Pulling his eyes away from the boy, he moved across to the dusty window, pulling aside the edge of the curtain and peering out. Early rays of sunlight glistened over the puddles of rain that were slowly draining away, making way for a crisp new day. It reflected how he felt, a deep desire to wash away his past and start afresh. He wanted to leave behind all his fears and anguish and embrace the new path he was forging, to proudly move ahead with single-minded determination and little else. He was going to do it now - going to seek out and reach his goals and bask in his achievements without fear of reprisal.

He wanted to damn those who stood in his path, holding him back and pulling him down. He wanted to smash them to a bloody pulp for cursing him with their insolence and disrespect. He was better than them, had proved it over and over again, and no longer would he allow them to stand in his way.

He twisted the frayed curtain in his hand and narrowed his eyes as he continued to stare out the window. He had a good vantage point of the motel rooms, all lined up in a straight row of decrepit brick and rotting wood, their timber doors with peeling paint facing the parking lot. He could see the two cars, metal shining in the early morning light, pulled in to park at the front of the lot. He could see the young man, still a teenager really, standing at the open door, looking around, and for a moment he swore their eyes locked. He hastily stepped away from the window, letting the curtain fall back in to place.

He needed to be more careful.

He knew he needed to set his plans in motion and make ready his escape. He moved back over to the bed, his regret sharp that again he'd be forced to deny himself what was rightfully his, to not be able to take what he wanted right now. God, it was so tempting, an almost overpowering need to just succumb to what was being offered, to appease his growing needs and take his satisfaction, right here and now. His body throbbed with the promise of what was to come, the tingle of anticipation pulling his body tight.

"God, so sweet," he muttered, stroking the boy's hair. "So goddamn sweet and pretty, just for me."

He ran his fingers over the tape across the boy's mouth. He so wanted to pull the ugly tape away, to feel the boy's lips, so soft and tender. To see those red lips parting and feel the warm breath escaping. He wanted it so goddamn bad his body was screaming at its forced denial.

He pulled himself away as he felt his resistance crumbling. He stood looking down at the boy, hands clenched tightly by his sides as he fought to control his spiraling hunger. His heart was pounding in his chest, blood surging through his body as he willed himself to resist. "Soon, soon," he whispered, reining back his desires.

Taking the small length of rope from his pocket, he secured the boys bound hands to the bed frame, willing to take no chances that the kid would try to escape again. He'd learnt his lesson the hard way and only a fool would make the same mistake twice. One thing he was sure, he was nobody's fool.

"There's no escape this time boy," he taunted, testing the strength of the knots in the rope.

He allowed himself one light touch before moving away again, but like an addict, the temptation was more than he could resist. The boy squirmed under his hands, but the movements were weak and pitiful, like a wounded puppy all battered and broken.

"Just mine now, all mine," he ran his tongue over his dry lips, relishing the thought, as the boy twisted against his bindings.

He looked at the boy closely, all laid out and gorgeous, and he wanted to take a picture to cherish this moment forever. He took in every detail, committing it to memory, wanting to have a snapshot in his mind to draw upon for future reference. This was his fantasy, here for the taking. Only a weak man would deny himself this pleasure.

He couldn't help the small laugh that escaped as he watched the boy's eyes shift around the room, even now looking for a way out. "Seems I gotta keep repeating myself boy, to make ya understand. This is how its gonna be from now on, just you and me, the both of us together. Ain't nobody gonna come charging through that door to rescue your sorry ass, you understand me boy? Your dad, he gave ya to me. Good as sold ya to the highest bidder, and I ain't asking for no refunds if ya know what I mean."

He smiled as the boy stilled; his innocent face unable to mask the abject misery that the words provoked.

It was almost too easy.

**-o-**

Sam shuddered at the foul breath and cruel words, praying there was no truth in them. He didn't want this, the plans the man had mapped out for them. Never before had he wanted his brother and dad so much, and the man was right, so desperately did he want them to come charging in to the rescue. _But would they? _The lingering doubts refused to be banished, his hope wavering as he feared that maybe the man was right. _Maybe he was worth more gone._

_They didn't even remember your birthday. They left you behind. _He thought back over the past few days, looking to reinforce his hopes, but finding nothing. Desperately he searched his memory for evidence to dispute the man's statements, but instead, all he found was a stark reminder of the reality of his life. He felt his resolve crumbling; fading hope now was all that he had.

He stifled his sobs, determined to put up a brave front. He didn't want to feel those hands any more, feel that panting breath and hear those whispered words. He didn't want to be tired and cold, tied up tight in his damp clothes instead of someplace warm. He didn't want to feel the pain anymore, spreading like fire through his body until he just wanted to throw up or pass out in a bid to escape.

'No more' he wanted to yell.

'No more' he was ready to beg.

He didn't think he could take any more.

He stilled his body and closed his eyes. In his mind he recited a prayer to himself, one that Pastor Jim had taught him not too long ago. He repeated the words, over and over again, until they blended together and that was all that he heard. Peaceful soothing words echoing in his head.

He blocked out his surroundings and retreated, someplace safe.

**-o-**

**Note:** Hiding under a rock ...don't shoot me! Really, I thought this was a great place to end this chapter.

**Reviews are love.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Yes, I've been neglectful in replying to reviews and I feel really awful about that. Please know that I cherished them all and I will even go so far as to admit to checking them all the time! I just got caught up with having to play in my real world life for a little while this week.

My amazing beta, Supernaturaldh, prodded, prompted and fixed ...tirelessly and without complaint!

**Chapter 9**

"What were you thinking John?" Pastor Jim demanded as he took a wary step into the motel room.

"Now's not the time Jim." John retorted, knowing where his friend was heading with his question.

"He's only a boy. And you left him here? Alone?" Jim couldn't help the barrage of words that escaped his lips as he took in the condition of the room before him. It was scarcely fit for an animal, let alone any place for a child.

"One night Jim, it was just for one night." John felt forced to justify his actions.

Jim felt like shaking some sense into his friend. "And you think that makes it okay?"

"Christ Jim, you think I wanted to leave Sammy here? You think I had a choice? Hell, I can't watch the boy every damn minute of the day." John retorted in anger. Christ, Sammy was his son and nobody had the right to question how he raised his boys. He did what he thought was right, what was necessary to keep his boys safe.

'You could try,' Jim kept the thought to himself as he took a calming breath, knowing there'd be time enough for recriminations later.

**-o-**

Dean didn't follow the men inside. Instead, he stood rooted to the ground, lost deep in his own thoughts. He'd failed. Failed his brother. Sam was out there somewhere, lost, alone and he could feel the sharp stab of guilt that he'd allowed it to happen. Whatever it took, he'd find Sam, bring him back. He wouldn't accept anything less. Refused to even contemplate it.

He felt swamped with regrets, things he wanted to say, needed to say, if only Sam was with him. He wanted Sam to come walking towards him so damn bad, and for this to all be just some goddamn nightmare from which he was just waiting to wake up from.

A sign was all he needed. A place to start searching. He stared out across the rain washed parking lot, his mind locked in inner turmoil, eyes looking at nothing but seeing everything.

He caught the slight movement, no more than a twitch really, as the curtain fell back in to place.

They weren't alone.

He felt it then. The small glimmer of hope, surging and growing until it had his full focus. He took a few steps backwards, unwilling to part his eyes from that one focal point for even a second. He reached his arms out behind him and grabbed a hold of the door frame, still looking straight ahead, as if his eyes were glued to that one spot.

"Dad!" He called, interrupting the heated discussion in the motel room.

**-o-**

Frank drew in a deep breath as he leant his sweaty body over the boy. The kid was lying so still now, no longer struggling or trying to draw away. It was intoxicating to see the boy like this, his heart pounding fast and pale skin flushed. He could tell that the kid wanted this, wanted him, and it hardened his body and filled him with warmth.

He'd known that it would only be a matter of time before the boy would succumb to this, before he'd embrace what was so generously being offered. Out of all the kids out there, passing through, day after day, he'd chosen this boy, bestowed on him this honor, and it should be revered upon.

"Oh god," he moaned next to the boy's ear, tongue stroking out, his hot breath moving the fine wisps of hair that curled around the lobe. "So goddamn pretty."

Small moans escaped between the boy's closed lips, and he murmured his pleasure at the simple sounds, so pure and unrestrained, arousing him even further. It was captivating, invigorating, and oh so very perfect.

It was nearly his undoing.

He was so engrossed in the treat beneath him that it took a moment for the slight sound to penetrate his warm cocoon. The gentle click of a door opening, the small sound so ordinary, yet completely out of place, reached his ears.

He heaved himself off the boy, feeling instantly bereft at the loss of contact. Breath panting, he moved across the room, his steps silent as he listened for signs of company. He picked up his shotgun, the familiar weight giving him strength, and crept quietly from the room.

It just wasn't right, he thought, to be so close now, to have found his purpose, his meaning in life, and not be able to reach his goals. His body strummed, close to the edge, and he wanted physical gratification, hell he deserved it, after all his hard work. That someone should come in now, to his house, and deny him, just wasn't fair. This was his right, his destiny, and he cursed the fates for daring to take it all away.

As he watched the men enter his home he felt his anger soar; that they'd dare invade his privacy, his personal space was completely abhorrent. He wanted to lash out and seek retribution, but the weapons in the men's hands gave him pause. He knew when he was outnumbered, out gunned, and these men looked hard, their weapons resting comfortably in their hands as they moved into his home with unrelenting purpose. From his hiding spot he watched as they advanced with military precision, guns poised and ready as they started their search.

He retreated. It was all that he could do. Deep down, he knew that fighting back would be sheer lunacy; that the odds were not on his side. He was being tactical, he convinced himself as he slunk away, for now undetected by the heavily armed men.

**-o-**

John led the way; Dean and Jim following close behind. Entering unannounced seemed a little extreme, but hell, this was his son they were looking for. He'd rather have some trumped up manager threatening legal action than to risk the delay. This was not the time for asking questions, that could come later, but for now, it was action that they needed.

God, he prayed that this time Dean was right. That there was someone here, that they'd find Sammy, safe and unharmed. At the very least, he hoped they'd get some answers, a lead to follow, something to help them find his son.

It was eerie and quiet as they stepped inside, and the mere fact that no one came to stop their intrusion set his nerves on edge. It wasn't normal and it didn't feel right. He moved his finger and rested it against the trigger of his revolver.

Like a well oiled machine they moved in unison, clearing one room before moving on to the next. No words were exchanged, yet each man knew his place and carried out his task without question. John couldn't push aside the fear he felt at what they might find, and he fought against his better instincts not to tell Dean to wait outside. He knew it would break Dean if their worst fears were realised and he wanted to spare his eldest what he could.

When he strode into the room and saw Sammy on the bed, so quiet and still, his breath caught in his throat and he thought his heart would stop then and there. "Oh god, no," he muttered as he stood framed, one step inside the door, eyes staring across the room.

**-o-**

Dean heard the quiet words and his heart froze at the implications. He jostled his father out of the way, desperate to gain entry.

"Dean!" His father's firm hand tried to grasp his arm and hold him back, but he shook him off. He had to see for himself.

"No!" He yelled, as he stepped into the room.

John reached out a restraining arm and pulled him back again. "Dean!"

"This is your fault Dad, all your fault. Why? Why did we leave him Dad? Why? God no, no, not Sammy, please, not Sammy." His body trembled with emotion but he found the strength to push his father away, meeting little resistance this time.

He wanted to scream in denial at the sight before him. Sam lay flat on his back, bound and gagged, with arms stretched taunt and tied to the bed head. He didn't move or acknowledge their presence. Didn't twitch or open his eyes. He lay bruised and blood stained, as pale and still as the dead.

"No, Sammy. God no." Dean cried out as he moved instinctively forwards, dropping to his knees beside the bed. "Sammy please!"

He reached out trembling fingers to touch his brother's face. He placed them lightly against Sam's cheek, stroking against the streaks of dirt before running them down to the tape across his brother's mouth. With deft fingers he pried the end loose, gently pulling the tape free and tossing it down onto the bed. He ran his fingers across Sam's cracked lips, tracing them, as if the soft touch could take away all the pain and hurt that had been inflicted upon them.

Then he heard it, almost imperceptible, a quite gasp and moan at the gentle movement.

"Sammy?" Dean moved his hands, suddenly needing them to be everywhere at once. He pushed his fingers against Sam's neck, searching for a pulse, at the same time placing his palm flat against his brother's chest, feeling for the subtle rise and fall.

"Dad!" He shouted, desperate now, needing help.

He pulled out his knife and sliced through the bindings at his brother's wrists, tearing away the tape from the bruised skin.

He didn't feel the tears falling down his face as he begged his brother for a response. "Sam, Sammy, can you hear me? Come on…"

"Dean, move out of the way." John demanded as he leaned over his youngest son.

Dean shifted just a fraction to make room for his father, but he couldn't move away. He wouldn't do it. Sammy was his brother, his responsibility, and he wouldn't fail him twice.

He watched his father's frantic movements as he checked Sam's vitals and assessed his injuries. Seeing the cuts and bruises was devastating, but even worse was Sam's lack of reaction as he was gently manhandled by their father. He was so quiet; his complexion bleached to ash white; that Dean needed to keep a hand against his brother's skin to convince him that Sam was still alive.

"Rest of the place is clear." Jim announced, skidding back into the room as he secured his revolver in his waistband. He hovered at the end of the bed, watching as John and Dean tended to young Sam.

Dean glanced across at the Pastor, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed at his announcement. His hands itched to exact revenge, to extract punishment for the pain Sam had suffered. But he pushed those thoughts away. Right now, he needed to focus on his priority, Sam.

"Dad?" He questioned, needing to know what to do, how to help.

John looked at his eldest son, seeing both hope and fear in his eyes. He wished he had the answers to give him, but settled for platitudes instead.

"He's going to be okay." John softly stated, and God, he prayed those words were true.

**-o-**

Frank stood just out of sight, concealing himself behind the group of shrubs. He cradled his shotgun, feeling like a coward for slipping away. He wanted to storm back inside and demand the return of what was rightfully his. He could picture himself doing it, all pent up aggression as he stood his ground before the other men. He would stand tall, demand respect, and he would damn well get it.

Yet still, he held back, unable to completely overcome his fear. He tightened his grip on the shotgun and rallied his strength. This was just a small set back, he told himself. He needed to get away, regroup; there were bigger and better things in stall for him. He just had to open up his eyes to the glory of the world, for all it had to offer.

He was meant for great things, and it was up to him to go forth and seize his opportunities.

As he looked back at the motel, he couldn't entirely erase his regrets. He couldn't help but wish now that he'd taken the boy, rough and quick, when he'd had the chance. Wish that he'd seen the pain on the boy's face as he took his innocence, forever imprinting himself on the boy's body and in his mind.

But life was too short for regrets; he reminded himself, embracing his new found strength of purpose. He would get his chance, would carve his destiny, and he would achieve great things. He was not done with this boy, this jewel that he wanted all to himself, but for now, he would cut his losses and walk away.

One day soon, his time would come.

**-o-**

It hurt to breathe, to draw in even the smallest of breaths. The pain was everywhere and Sam tried to crawl back into the void in which he'd been hiding. The voices were too loud, the lights too bright and the tiniest of movements made him feel sick and dizzy.

He wanted to yell at them all to stop. To just leave him alone. Surely he deserved a little peace. He was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that moving even a single muscle seemed beyond his remaining strength. So he let it happen, let the hands touch him, let the voices wash over him, and throughout it all he remained immobile and submissive.

Eventually it was the voice that called to him, over and over again that registered somewhere deep inside. His name, whispered, so pleading and needy, with a desperation he found hard to ignore.

It drew him back to the present with a sharp jolt and he cried out as the pain hit him.

"Dean!"

**-o-**

**Note: **I'm trying to keep the updates regular, so I'm having to trade off with slightly shorter chapters. Working faster would be better, but damn, _I'm just a slow writer._

**Reviews are love.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Thank you everyone for reading, reviewing and generally just making me feel good. My super awesome beta, Supernaturaldh, has once again worked her magic over my mistakes - she's a glutton for punishment and totally invaluable.

**-o-**

**Negligence**

**Chapter 10**

"Shhhh Sammy, I'm here." Dean soothed a hand across Sam's forehead, wishing he could take away his brother's pain.

Sam stared back at him, his eyes glassy and dazed. Dean watched as a small tear brimmed on the edge of his lashes before running free across his face. He wiped it away with the pad of his finger, smudging it into the grime on Sam's face.

"God Sammy." Dean cupped his brother's face, feeling his own tears pooling in his eyes. "It's gonna be okay. I gotcha….everything's gonna be okay now."

He wanted a response, needed one, but Sam remained mute; silent, glazed eyes staring blankly back at him. His abused body trembling under his touch.

"Let's get him out of here." John reached down to slide his arms under Sam.

Dean pulled the trembling bundle towards him, unwilling to let go. "No dad, I've got him."

John placed a hand over Dean's, halting his efforts. "Dean. Let me, he's heavier than he looks, you know that. We'll take him back to the room, clean him up and then figure out what the hell's going on here."

Dean kept a hand on his brother for a moment longer before reluctantly letting go and moving aside. He bit his lip as his dad moved in closer and took the spot he'd vacated.

John scooped up his youngest son and cradled him against his chest. Sam whimpered like a small child in his arms, his head supported by the crook of his elbow. He pulled Sam in a little closer and hugged him gently, careful not to aggravate his injuries.

"You're safe now." He whispered against Sam's ear.

Jim and Dean flanked John as he carried Sam, semi conscious from the room. Although their focus was on Sam now, no one disregarded the fact that somewhere out there, whatever had attacked Sam, was still roaming free. They all fought to keep their anger in check, thoughts focusing solely on Sam even as their eyes scanned the surroundings.

**-o-**

Frank pushed his hands deep into his pockets as he watched the scene unfold before him. He'd fought against his baser instincts to just flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the motel. But there was that one small part of him that couldn't let it go. It was like an unfinished story, and he needed to see it through to the end. So he remained hidden, keeping his distance as he waited and watched. They were on his territory now, and here, he was king.

His perseverance had paid off, he congratulated himself, as he watched his boy being carried across the parking lot. He wanted to rush out and shoot the older man right now, for daring to lay his hands upon _his_ boy, _his_ treasure. He wanted to slit his throat for daring to touch him, _his boy!_ For holding his boy close. The boy was his, would always be his, just his. He seethed in anger and ground his teeth, forcing his body to remain still.

He watched their movements, slow and steady, and his hand twitched on the shotgun. It would be so easy, too easy, to end this right now. One part of him wanted to do it. Wanted to lift the barrel of the shotgun, take aim and fire. He moved his hand off the shotgun, resisting temptation. Their time would come soon enough.

This was just a setback, he reminded himself, a small pebble in a mountain of rocks.

His hands fisted at his sides as he followed their movements. Dammit, they were touching him, laying their filthy hands on his precious boy.

They were goddamn touching him! Tarnishing him. It wasn't fair. Wasn't right!

He's mine! He wanted to shout, to scream it out loud for all the world to hear.

**-o-**

Sam felt himself being lifted and carried, strong arms pulling him in close. His body was shaking so badly now that he feared he'd fall out of the sturdy hold. He could feel the heat radiating off his dad, smell the familiar scent of sweat, earth and smoke that he'd come to associate with his father. He breathed it in, tried to get closer, feeling safe in what seemed like the first time in forever. He never wanted those arms to let him go.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been held like this by his dad, as if he was special, cherished. Held safe for no other reason than just being there.

He closed his eyes, felt the rhythm of his father's footsteps, and listened to the deep timbre of his gruff voice as it echoed through his chest, not needing to know the actual words. It lulled him and he felt some of the tension leave his limbs. He was safe now. He could rest, sleep. He was safe now.

**-o-**

Dean rushed ahead of his father into the motel room and pulled down the covers on the bed so that they could lay Sam down.

"Get the kit Dean." John demanded as he peeled Sam's coat from his shivering body.

"I'll get it." Jim swivelled around and raced back outside.

"Dad?" Dean hovered at the edge of the bed, watching his father's ministrations.

John didn't pause as he propped Sam up into a seated position with his head leaning into his chest. "Help me get his clothes off Dean. We need to know what we're dealing with."

With gentle hands they stripped the clothes from Sam's body until he was laid out on the bed in just his boxers.

"Dear God." Jim whispered, resting the first aid kit on the end of the bed. Sam was a ghastly shade of white, mottled with a collection of colourful bruises scattered over his pale body. He looked like a train wreck, battered and scarred, and Jim wanted to curse whatever had inflicted such cruel injuries on the young Winchester. That the lad had suffered so much seemed to mock everything that he held dear.

"I'll get some warm water and towels." Jim muttered, turning away, clenching his hands until his knuckles turned white under the pressure. He preferred not to think of himself as a man of violence, but there were times, like now, when evil preyed against the innocent, that he was driven to fight with physical force for the side of good. There were times when it was needed, just to keep the balance in check.

John kept a soothing hand on Sam's shoulder as he assessed the damage to his son's body. Now that his clothes were removed, and Sam was laid bare, he looked small and vulnerable, younger than he remembered, defenceless.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me son?" He needed to find out what had happened, find out what had done this to his son.

Sam turned his head to the side and kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to remember.

"Come on Sammy." John cupped his son's chin and turned his face back around. "I need you to open your eyes for me, can you do that?"

Sam let his head relax into his dad's hand, making no effort to comply with the request.

John rubbed his callused thumb across Sam's face and fought back his desire to demand answers from his son. "Let us help you Sam."

"Sammy?" Dean perched on the edge of the mattress next to his brother. "Sammy, come on kiddo, open your eyes, I know you can hear me." He combed his fingers through the hair falling across Sam's face, pushing the damp curls away.

John waited for Sam to open his eyes, sure he'd respond to Dean, but his youngest remained mute, like he was there but nobody was home.

"John?" Jim held out the bowl of warm soapy water and a towel to his friend. "How's he doing?"

"Looks like he went a round with Mike Tyson, but that cut isn't too deep, might need a couple of stitches. He'll be feeling it for a few days that's for sure." John dipped a corner of the towel into the warm water and squeezed out the excess before running the cloth across Sam's face.

Sam flinched at the feeling of the damp towel on his face. He'd had enough. He couldn't understand why they couldn't just let him sleep. He wanted to roll onto his side, to curl up into a ball and disappear.

"Come on Sammy, spa treatment's over, we need to get some of this mud off dude." Dean took the towel from his father and took over the task of wiping clean Sam's face.

John stood up and stretched, looking down at his sons. Dean wiped gently, streaking the dirt with each swipe of the cloth as he tried to remove the mud splattering Sam's pale face.

**-o-**

"All done." John tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. He watched Sam's face closely for a reaction, but the silent tears running from the corners of his eyes were the only response.

With Sam being so silent he wished he could find some joy in the irony of the situation. When all he wanted was a few minutes peace and quiet, Sam's endless chatter often felt like the bane of his life, but right this minute he'd give anything for just a few words from his son. He'd give anything to take away Sam's pain.

He put the scissors back in the first aid kit before rummaging around for the small bottle of pills they always kept for emergencies. "Think you can swallow one of these for me?" he asked, shaking one out into his hand.

"Dean, lift his head up for me, I don't want him to choke." John asked when got no response from his youngest.

Dean let go of his brother's hand and slid further up the bed to prop himself behind his brother, pulling him up until his head was raised. "Come on Sammy, we're nearly done, just a little bit more."

John pushed the pill past Sam's lips. "Swallow Sam." He raised the glass of water to Sam's mouth and tipped until the water met closed lips. "Come on Sam, I need you to swallow for me. Please."

"Come on Sammy, just a little sip." Dean coaxed, rubbing a hand down Sam's arm as he felt Sam's body tremble.

Sam opened his lips and let the first dribble of moisture into his mouth, swallowing the pill down. The water was like rain after a drought and suddenly he just couldn't get enough. He took another sip and then wanted to scream when the glass was pulled away. He opened his eyes just a slit and reached out his hand and pulled the glass back, wrapping his hand over his father's as he guided the glass back to his mouth. The water sloshed over the edge as he gulped it down, desperate for more.

"Sammy, slow down, you'll make yourself sick." John held the glass steady and controlled the angle so that Sam couldn't gulp at the liquid.

When the water was finally drained, John pulled the glass away and placed it on the nightstand.

Sam took a deep breath, his eyes blinking as he tried to focus.

"You with me son?" John asked.

"Dad." Sam mumbled, staring at his father before looking up and seeing Dean gazing down at him. "Dean."

"Hey Sammy, how you feeling?" Dean asked with a smile.

"You came back." Sam whispered; a smile ghosting across his face before his eyes slipped closed again.

"Come on Sam, you can sleep in a minute. Just need you to answer a couple of questions first. Then you can rest, I promise." John grasped Sam's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

"Dad!" Dean protested.

"Sam! I need to know what happened." John demanded.

Sam opened his eyes again and looked at his dad. "Man." He answered, hoping that now he'd be allowed to sleep. He was so tired and things were starting to feel foggy.

"Man? What do you mean Sam? What man?" John persisted, even though he could see that Sam was struggling to stay awake.

"The man." Sam whispered, closing his eyes and succumbing to his medicated sleep.

**-o-**

John took a sip of the strong coffee and wrapped his hands around the mug as he tried to shake off his exhaustion. He lent against the kitchen counter and tried to rotate the kinks out of his neck as he stared across the room at his sleeping son. Sam was bundled under the covers, his face relaxed in sleep, and if it wasn't for his paleness, John would almost have been able to convince himself that this had all been a bad dream.

"What do you think he meant Dad?" Dean asked, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Maybe exactly what he said." Jim piped in, refilling the kettle. He had a feeling they'd be needing plenty more coffee before this day was over. "Muddy boot-prints all 'round the place where we found Sam."

"Sulphur?" John asked, watching his friend.

Jim shook his head. "No sign of it, not that I could see anyway."

"What the hell's going on here?" John muttered. "Might not be the Ritz but where the hell is everyone?"

"Think its time we went and had a good scout 'round, don't you?" Jim placed his coffee cup back on the counter and looked at John.

"Yeah." John agreed. "Dean, watch your brother. We shouldn't be too long."

**-o-**

Dean watched the two men leave the room, feeling torn. He wanted to go with them, get answers, and hunt down whatever, whoever, had hurt his brother. At the same time, he didn't want to leave Sam alone. He'd left Sam alone once already and was now reaping the consequences. It wasn't happening again.

He pulled a chair across to the side of Sam's bed. He'd like nothing more than to lie down next to Sam and grab some sleep, but whatever had done this was still out there and he needed to stay alert. He sunk down onto the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He lent back and settled in to watch his brother sleep.

Dean jolted his head back, realising that he'd been starting to nod off. He stood up and stretched, moving into the kitchen to make himself another cup of coffee. His dad and Jim had been gone for nearly and hour now and he was starting to feel anxious. He paced the room as he slowly sipped his coffee, before returning to his seat, moving it a little so that he could easily watch both the door and Sam.

**-o-**

The sound of the door unlocking penetrated Sam's subconscious. With a jerk he snapped back awake, his heart freezing and the fear taking over. _Please, god, no!_ He wanted to run, but he was tangled, sheets and blankets tying him down. He pushed at them frantically, kicking out with his feet as he tried to break free.

"Dean!" He screamed as the panic took over.

"Sam, shhhh, I'm right here." Dean lent over his brother and grabbed his flailing arms. "Calm down Sam, it's just me."

"Noooo!" He screamed, trying to twist away from the restraining hands. This couldn't be happening, not again.

Dean looked across at his Dad and Jim as they entered the room in a rush. "Dad?" He pleaded as Sam continued to kick and struggle against him.

John moved to his sons' side. "Sammy, come on son. You need to calm down. You're going to hurt yourself, undo all my handiwork."

Sam squirmed as strong hands held him down. He couldn't move. Couldn't escape. He wanted to fight, but he hurt all over andalready he could feel his body tiring with his efforts. With a sob he stilled his movements and let his muscles go lax. He wasn't strong enough to fight back, not this time.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, running his fingers through Sam's curls.

Sam felt the hands holding him down loosen their grip and the weight in his chest lessened a little. He opened his eyes and looked into the concerned faces of his dad and Dean. His heart started to slow and he took in a deep breath as the pain started to ebb away.

"Okay now?" John asked.

"Mmmmm." He mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"Try and get some rest." John whispered, pulling the blankets back up around his son and tucking him in. It had been too many years, he thought, since he'd done this. His boys were growing up so damn fast.

**-o-**

Sam pulled the blankets in closer around his body. It didn't seem to matter what he did, he couldn't feel warm. Rolling onto his side, he pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms in close as he made himself into a small ball.

He opened his eyes and watched as Dean moved across the room, taking a seat at the table with Pastor Jim and his dad. They spoke in hushed whispers and he couldn't make out the words. Every now and then they shot him fugitive glances, as if seeking answers to their unvoiced questions.

He wondered if they were getting ready to leave him again. He couldn't help the thought; it kept entering his head every time they went in or out the door. Would they leave him alone again? He knew he needed to make an effort to get out of bed, to be ready to leave. He didn't want them to think he was weak, useless, unable to hunt. He couldn't risk it. Couldn't face being left behind again.

As soon as he was warm, he'd do it. Get up, get dressed, and be ready for whatever his family had planned. Soon as he was warm, he thought, wishing he had on more clothes, an extra blanket, anything to keep away the relentless chill that he couldn't seem to shift. He let his eyes drift closed as sleep pulled him down again. He floated, giving in to his body's need for rest.

**-o-**

He woke up to silence and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He glanced around the shabby motel room, his eyes coming to rest on the window. The curtains fluttered, letting in sharp arrows of sunlight from outside. He stared at the movement, at the shadows beyond, and wanted to run across the room and pull the curtains fully closed.

His breath hitched in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel his heart pounding, as if it wanted to take a flying leap straight out of his chest and leave him for dead. He willed it to slow down as he tried to reason with himself. It was just his imagination playing tricks on him. He needed to stay calm.

He opened his eyes again with infinite slowness, as if the motion would go undetected by anyone watching. Through mere slits he looked at the window again, focusing all his attention on the one spot.

He could see clearly now, could make out the silhouetted shape through the shadows. It moved, coming closer, until it was pressed up close against the glass.

"Mine." The man whispered.

**-o-**

**Reviews are love.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **This is the longest story I've ever written, and it's because of the reviews and words of encouragement that I've managed to keep motivated, so thank you for the support!

Supernaturaldh once again lent me her amazing beta skills – I took her ideas and ran with them, then I played around with them and made a mess, so all resulting mistakes are mine.

Before you continue, I should probably warn for 'dark thoughts' and swear words.

**-o-**

**Chapter 11**

John gave the room one final perusal before turning back to his friend. "You don't think…?" He asked, fingering the gaffer tape they'd cut from Sam.

Pastor Jim looked at the rumpled bed, the rope still knotted in the bed head, and frowned. He knew what John was asking, could see the distress on his friend's face, and he wished he could give him the response he so badly needed. "I don't think so." He answered, praying he was right.

"I thought he'd be safe. I mean we weren't gone long and hell, I thought he'd be safer here. I just thought he'd just stay in the room, you know, watch some TV. Not get himself into this." John muttered; his eyes staring at the blood stained sheets.

"Get himself into this? You think this was Sammy's fault? That he somehow caused this?" Jim threw back, looking at his friend in shock.

"I just meant…" John retorted before being cut off.

Jim threw up a hand in front of John's face. "Now you wait there just one minute. I don't care what you 'meant', but Sam no more asked for this than he does for anything else. You left that lad behind and there ain't no excuses for what you did. You should be down on one knee praying, thanking God that your boy's as strong as he is 'cause I got no doubt that's the only reason Sam's still with us."

"I know. I know I dropped the ball on this one, plain and simple." John replied; already feeling weighed down with guilt, the Pastor's words just adding to his burden.

Jim took a deep breath and counted to ten. He was tempted to lash out again at his friend, to make him understand that things weren't going to magically be alright. That his actions couldn't be so easily justified or the consequences simply patched up and repaired. But one look at the remorse on John's face and he held his tongue. They needed to focus on the here and now, needed to find the sick bastard who had done this.

They'd wasted precious time searching the motel office and the attached apartment, but had come up empty. The motel manager was nowhere in sight, the quietly spoken man John remembered having totally disappeared. Since no one else was registered at the run down, empty, establishment, it didn't take long for the two hunters to focus on the absentee manager as their suspect.

Jim looked at the paperwork in his hand, a collection of bills and receipts. "You think he's, ah, Frank Rajak, you think he's long gone?"

"I don't know what to think." John answered, feeling at a loss. This was their second visit to the motel manager's accommodations and yet they were no closer to finding the answers they so badly needed. A thorough search had given them a name, and they now knew how the bastard liked to spend his money, knew about his sick fantasies in graphic detail, his obsession with young boys and preference for perverted pornography; but they were no closer to locating the man himself.

"You know, everything's still here, like he left in a hurry, and somehow I get the feeling we kind of interrupted his plans turning up when we did. Just doesn't make sense that he'd leave Sammy like that, you know, before…" Jim stuttered, unable to give voice to the rest of his thoughts.

John ran his fingers through his hair, swearing he could feel the strands turning grey under his fingertips. He had a damn good idea of what type of sick bastard they were dealing with, but the knowledge didn't make the facts any easier to bear. He looked across at the evidence spread out across the table, a vile collection of photographs and trophies, and he wanted to tear the twisted pervert limb from limb, make him suffer a fate worse than death. That son of a bitch had it coming and god dammit; he'd enjoy making the bastard curse the day he ever dared lay a hand on his son.

John picked up one of the photographs and looked at it briefly before tossing it back on the table, feeling dirty. Christ, he'd left his son in the hands of the worst kind of predator, a paedophile. "What have I done?" He muttered, sweeping the pile of photographs onto the floor with the back of his hand. "What the hell have I done?"

**-o-**

Frank pressed his face up close to the glass, blocking out his reflection as he peered inside. He could see clearly now, the room no longer a mass of dark shapes and reflections.

God, everything was going so perfectly, he thought, seeing the boy lying bundled on the bed. He wished he could reach out, straight through the glass, and touch him. Feel his young supple skin, hear his stuttered moans. God, he wanted to trail his fingers through the boy's hair, lift his head up off the pillow and taste those soft sweet lips, swallow down his gasp of surprise and drink in his soul.

He could see the boy staring back at him, panting now, his lips slightly parted and his eyes open wide. God, the boy was enticing. He couldn't help but imagine that those soft panting breaths were just for him, could imagine the boy coming alive under his touch as he pressed the lean young body down into the mattress and stripped him bare.

Already he could feel his heart rate quicken in anticipation. He'd make it good for the boy, take it slow and gentle. Draw out the pleasure, make it last, until the boy was begging and pleading for release. Nothing could compete with this, the boy was like a personal slice of heaven, and God, it was going to be so goddamn perfect.

Red hot desire coursed through him, like a jolt of electricity, bringing his body to life. He ran a hand down his chest, slipping it under his coat until he could feel the glide of his fingers through the thin cotton of his shirt. His hand slipped lower, and he watched the boy as he felt his own breath quicken with hunger. Seeing the boy like that was almost too much, almost his undoing, and he pulled his hand away, reining back his passion.

The boy was like a damn drug in his system now, calling to him, pressing him with intense need, to the exclusion of all else. It was like the boy was being dangled before him, captivating him, beckoning to him with his beauty. He was strong, but no man could resist this, so pure and innocent, so goddamn beautiful just waiting to be picked up and carried away.

It was like torture being this close again, with just a clear barrier separating him from the boy, teasing and tempting him, but still just out of reach. He fingered the set of keys in his pocket, wanting to walk around right now and unlock the door, stride across the room and pull the boy into his arms and crush him tight. _Soon_, he reminded himself, _soon_.

Soon the boy would be his. He refused to be thwarted again. No, this time he would be victorious and refused to entertain any doubt that he would not succeed. This was his fate, his purpose. Adrenaline surged through his system and he felt alive again, as if he was finally embracing the life he was destined to live, grabbing it with both hands and just taking. He refused to survive on paper imitations and rot away in dull daily monotony any longer, when the real thing was right here and his for the taking.

He could see the boy's awareness as their eyes locked in unspoken understanding, as if they were intrinsically linked somehow, two souls waiting to be joined. This time, nothing would stand in his way, he would succeed, the boy would be his.

Reluctantly he stepped away from the window. He had to be patient, just a little bit longer.

**-o-**

Sam lay on the bed and willed his body to move. He wanted to look away from the window but he was locked in his fear, completely frozen. It couldn't be happening, not again. He was alone again, left behind.

He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead as his heart pounded with relentless force in his chest. The fear was all encompassing as it enveloped him, invading every fibre of his being. He was staring his fate in the face and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He felt his breath hitch and struggled to catch it again. He felt like there wasn't enough air in the room and he was slowly being suffocated to death. Each shallow breath stuttered in his throat, the air barely reaching his starved lungs. He took quicker breaths, trying to compensate, but the air seemed to evade his efforts. He couldn't help but wonder if this was not a better way to die, before the man caught him again. It didn't seem fair after he'd tried so hard and come so far, almost believing that he was safe now, but he couldn't live through it all again. He couldn't.

His breath faltered and he clenched his fingers in the blankets as he waited for it to happen.

Waited for the air not to come anymore.

Waited for death to claim him.

**-o-**

Dean splashed some cold water on his face, repeating the process a couple more times as he tried to shock his body more fully awake. He looked into the mirror as he ran his wet fingers through his hair and his exhausted face stared back at him. It felt like forever since he'd had a decent sleep, and the way things were going, it would still be a while yet. He needed to stay awake, stay alert, and cold water coupled with caffeine would have to do the trick, at least until Pastor Jim and his dad returned.

He ground his palms into his eyes and gave himself a mental shake. He needed to keep it together, to stay strong. Taking a deep breath he stood tall and straight, putting on a façade of composure. Finally ready, he pushed open the bathroom door, wincing as it creaked on its hinges, hoping the noise didn't wake Sam.

It took only one quick glance at his little brother to know that something was wrong. Sam was rigid on the bed, tremors running through his body and his breath coming in quick short pants.

"Sam?" He called, racing over to his brother's side. "Sam, can you hear me?" He laid a hand on Sam's forehead, checking for fever. Sam felt a little warm, his skin ghostly pale, but no worse than earlier.

"Christ Sammy." Dean muttered as he slid onto the bed beside his brother, pulling him in close.

He wrapped his arms around Sam, holding on tight to his shaking body. "Come on kiddo, breathe with me here," he coaxed, "slow breaths, nice and easy, come on, I know you can do it, I'm here now, right here, not going anywhere."

**-o-**

Sam stared at the window, even after his worst nightmare moved out of sight. He could still see the small spot where the man's warm breath had fogged the dirty glass. He was trapped, held captive in his own body, waiting for whatever fate had in store for him.

Then he felt the warm body slide in behind his own and he knew instantly that it was Dean. He leaned against the warmth, letting his body be held and supported. He laid his head on Dean's chest and finally, he was able to close his eyes, blocking out the window and the room and the memories.

He felt the beat of his brother's heart deep in his chest and rested his ear against it, focusing on the steady rhythm, until his own breaths started to slow. Finally, he was able to draw in deep lungfuls of precious air and stop the trembling in his limbs. He was safe again, protected, and he knew that whatever happened, Dean would keep him out of harm's way.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered.

"Mmmmm." He mumbled into his brother's chest.

"Okay now?" Dean asked, keeping his voice low and gentle.

"Mmmmm."

Dean rested his chin on top of his brother's head, keeping his arms wrapped tight around Sam as he ventured the next question. "Want to talk about what happened?"

"No." Sam felt the small tear run down his face.

Dean waited a minute before pushing again. "Sure?"

Sam felt another tear joining the first, and then another, until the floodgates opened and released a deluge. He turned his face into his brother's shirt and tried to muffle his sobs.

"God Sammy, I'm so sorry. Should never have left you." Dean felt the tears pool in his own eyes as he held his brother close, his fingers clutching tightly to the nape of Sam's neck, offering what little comfort he could.

**-o-**

The blade was razor sharp and Frank thrust the end in with little resistance. He slashed downwards, tearing through the thick rubber without pause. The air escaped with a gentle hiss and the car tilted down on the punctured tire, ensuring it was going nowhere soon. Staying crouched down low, he moved to the next car, repeating the procedure with swift efficiency. He almost wished he could stay around and watch the expression on the men's faces when they saw the damage he had wrecked on their cars. He was almost tempted to run the edge of his blade across the shiny paintwork, to carve in a final farewell message. It was little more than they deserved and his sense of justice tempted him to carry out the punishment, but he knew he couldn't afford to draw attention to the slashed tires, not yet. He needed the element of surprise.

His eyes darted back towards the motel office and the attached rooms that were for his personal use. The two men had disappeared in there a little while ago and he couldn't help but wonder what they were doing, what they were touching. It felt like such an invasion of his personal space to know those men were in there, snooping around in his stuff. They had no damn right. Everything in there was his, all his!

Of course, he knew what they'd find. His special things. The things he kept hidden; meant for no one to see except for himself. They'd be ruined now anyway, dirty fingerprints all over them. He'd wanted to wait and go back for them later, but now, maybe it was better to leave them behind. He could start over; begin a new collection, a better one.

No, leaving it all behind was the right thing to do. He needed to start afresh, begin a new life, with a new name and a new identity. He could throw off the shackles of his past and be whoever the hell he wanted to be. Everything here was old, ruined now, and he needed nothing from this past life – except the boy. The boy was his impetus, his symbol of a new beginning. Together they'd escape all this and begin anew.

All his plans were set in motion now. He just needed to remove the final obstacles in his path and secure that last special piece.

He didn't know how much time he had before the two older men would emerge from inside again, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to chance meeting them face to face. They were damn arrogant busy-bodies, with their fancy guns and fast cars. Thinking they had the right to snoop in his business, get in his way and slow him down. As if they had some god given right to preach to him about right and wrong. He'd met their kind before and damn it all to hell if he was going to listen to that bullshit again.

He knew how to fight a battle, how to win, and getting up close and personal wasn't in his plan. He was smarter than them and this time he was looking forward to showing those filthy bastards just who the hell was in charge.

**-o-**

Dean held his brother, helpless to stop the sobs that shuddered through Sam's body and the tears that streamed down his face. All he could do was hold on.

It was heartbreaking, listening to the sobs of grief and fear as they poured from his little brother, so telling that words weren't necessary. He couldn't help but feel responsible, for not acting sooner, for not listening to his instincts. For leaving Sam. _Had he really been so focused on the hunt that he'd barely spared his brother a second thought when they'd driven away and left him behind?_ Hindsight aside, he knew there was no excuse for what he'd done, for what he'd failed to do. So he held his little brother tight and just prayed that Sam would learn to forgive him.

The soft slide of the door unlocking forced Dean to raise his head and glance at the door. He hoped that his dad and Pastor Jim at least had some good news.

The welcoming smile froze on his lips as he looked into the face of a stranger.

His body tensed and he glanced frantically around for his weapon, already pulling himself away from his brother. He lunged off the bed, grappling on the nightstand for his knife as he placed himself between Sam and the stranger.

He felt the breath leave his body as the knife plunged in, sharp white pain engulfing him. With one swift pull the knife was withdrawn and a split second later his body followed forward with the momentum, the floor racing up to meet him.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, scrambling off the bed.

**-o-**

**Note:** I think we're nearly done now. Maybe just another chapter or two to go.

**Reviews, as always, are pure love.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **I'm lost for words, no seriously, the reviews and messages have been inspiring and motivating and I cherish them all. So, to everyone who has taken the time to send me feedback, THANK YOU.

My amazing beta, Supernaturaldh, has been my rock and whip throughout this story.

**Chapter 12**

Frank watched as the teenager fell to the floor, a crimson stain spreading along the side of his shirt. He gave the teen a quick nudge with his foot, just to make sure he was down for the count. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as the older boy just flopped limply against his foot, head rolling on his neck with the momentum. Damn knife in the guts was only a down payment on what the older kid deserved, but that pleasure would have to wait.

He stepped towards the boy, his boy. His knife, now stained red, held in front of him with menacing intent. God, he didn't want to hurt the boy, not too much, not yet.

"You'll keep your trap shut, you hear me boy?" He reached out and grabbed the kid by the wrist, yanking him closer.

The kid barely resisted, his pitiful whimpers and trembling body in stark contrast to the fight he'd put up earlier.

He revelled in the feeling of the boy's body clutched tightly against his own, each small shudder reverberating through his own flesh. He felt his chest swell and his body flood with warmth. It was invigorating.

"You underestimated me boy. Came to claim what's mine." He brought the knife up until the blade rested against the boy's neck. He traced the small cut he'd inflicted the night before that hadn't even had a chance to heal. It was like a branding, his personal mark on the boy for all the world to see. He moved his other hand to the boy's neck, dipping his fingertip in the thin line of blood before bringing the digit to his lips, eagerly licking off the deep red blood. "So sweet boy, so goddamn sweet," he muttered twirling the finger in his mouth.

One final suck and he set his finger free. He didn't have time now, not for this. Not for what he wanted. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell, punching the buttons to redial the last number he'd called. He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his friend to answer. "Come on Griff, come on, pick up the goddamn phone." He muttered, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the familiar voice pick up.

"'Bout goddamn time." He grumbled into the phone. "Pick me up out front, couple of minutes," he demanded, hoping his friend was parked just up the road as he'd directed. He had a wide network of friends, contacts with similar interests, spread across the country, but Griff lived just one town over. He and Griff went back many years, a strong friendship forged over shared secrets. He knew he could rely on the other man to come to his assistance.

He started dragging the boy towards the door, pressing the blade closer each time the kid tried to squirm out of his grasp. The attempts to escape were feeble really, lacking strength; and nothing more than a token resistance.

"You been forgetting who you belong to boy." Frank whispered in Sam's ear as they stepped past Dean. "Maybe I should finish him off; teach him a lesson for touching what don't belong to him." Frank nudged Dean with his foot.

"No, please." Sam whispered, looking back at his brother lying in a puddle of blood on the floor.

"Don't tempt me boy. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep ya mouth shut and come along quietly. We understand each other boy?" Frank paused, one hand on the door knob, giving the boy a harsh shake as he waited for a response.

Sam nodded. "Yes," he whispered.

Frank leaned down until his lips were touching the boy's ear. "'Cause don't think I won't do it kid. Don't think it won't bring me some joy, to cut him up real good. One wrong step boy and I'll come back here, find him, and carve him up real good. So you listen up. We leave this room nice and quiet, and you'll do what I tell ya. We got an understanding boy?"

"Yes." Sam muttered meekly, willing to do whatever the man asked if it meant he'd leave Dean alone. He wanted to fight back, wanted to kill the man for hurting his big brother, but he knew he wouldn't win. The room was undulating and he felt cold and dizzy. He concentrated instead on just standing. On walking. Walking further away from Dean and hoping he was giving his brother a chance. A chance, he wasn't going to get.

"One wrong move boy, and I'll slit ya throat too, don't think I won't. And when I'm finished with ya, I'll come back here 'nd finish what I started." Frank laughed, low and deep near Sam's ear, his blade resting against Sam's throat as he opened the door and pushed him abruptly out of the room.

**-o-**

John paused as a small sound caught his attention, turning to look out the window and back towards the motel room.

"Son of a bitch." He cursed, pulling his gun from his waistband without taking his eyes off the scene unfolding in front of him.

He'd seen enough. His son was being dragged like a damn hostage, with a knife at his throat, Sam's fear so palpable John swore he could feel it from here. Worse still, where the hell was Dean? He knew his eldest wouldn't be standing idly by watching his brother being taken, and the implications of that sent a shaft of fear down his spine. Teeth clenching with determination, he pushed the fear aside, letting his barely constrained anger vie for top position. How dare this man threaten his family!

"John?" Pastor Jim questioned, gripping his friend on his bicep to hold him back. "Don't think it's a good idea to go out there guns blazing."

"The bastard has my son, and God only knows…" John spat, knuckles white where he gripped his gun.

Jim slid his own gun out from where it was tucked at the crook of his back. "Ain't gonna do Dean or Sammy any good if you tip our hand. Damn pervert's just as likely to use that knife as not. Give me a couple of minutes. I'll go out back, swing around the side and cover him from behind."

"Can't let him get away Jim." John stated, making his intent clear. Didn't matter that this pervert was just a man, he'd not be escaping unpunished. He'd be damn lucky to escape with his life, John thought, itching to get his hands on him, beat him senseless and wrap his hands tightly around the sick bastard's neck.

Jim knew exactly how his friend was feeling. "We'll stop him. Just give me two minutes to get into position, then I'll follow your lead."

John gave a quick nod. "Two minutes."

John didn't need to turn around to know his friend was already hurrying away.

**-o-**

Instinctively, Sam wanted to fight against the strong arm wrapped around his chest. He wanted to lower his head and bite into the fleshy arm until he was released. But the man's other hand, holding the knife across his throat, remained taut, and he was forced to hold his head high, raising his chin away from the sting of the blade. He was trapped.

Maybe it was a good thing. As the crazy man led him away from the motel room, Sam was relieved to put the distance between them and his brother. He couldn't forget the threat the man had made; to carve his brother up, and if going along with him prevented that, then that was what Sam would do. These were his mistakes and Dean didn't deserve to suffer.

So he moved his feet, concentrating on breathing, putting one foot in front of the other, staying upright and not stumbling. He could feel the pull of the stitches across his abdomen, but resisted the need to double over; knowing the blade at his throat would show him no leniency. If he faltered, he would be signing his own death warrant, he was sure of that.

**-o-**

Frank held the boy clutched closely against his chest, using him like a shield. They made slow progress, the kid's feet barely reaching the ground as he was dragged, scrambling to find purchase.

Frank took careful measured steps forwards, distancing himself and the boy from the motel room. It was pathetic really, the whimpering sounds the boy was making as his small body trembled and shook. It made him want to shake the kid harder, give him something to cry about. Instead, he dug his fingers into the boy's arm, deep and bruising, until he heard the small yelp of pain.

"Stop ya snivelling and move ya goddamn feet boy." He pushed the boy forward with a bit more force, only his tight grip preventing the kid from sprawling onto the gravel. "You got no more chances with me boy, this is it. You ruin it now, and I'll finish ya, don't think for one minute that I won't. Ya just one step away boy, from feeling this here knife slitting ya pretty little neck, clean through, it'll be just like slicing through soft butter."

Sam couldn't stop the trembling. He tried. He willed his body to stay still, to stay standing. But still the shivers raced across his skin causing his limbs to shake. It was all he could do to remain upright in the man's hold. One slip, one stumble, and he knew that blade under his chin would slice straight through and he didn't need the man's words to remember that fact. He didn't want to die.

**-o-**

Frank heard the crunch of gravel behind him and turned quickly, swivelling the boy with him. Instinctively his grip tightened on the knife, and the boy gave a small yelp as the blade sliced into tender flesh.

He faced the direction of his opponent, one of the men he'd watched earlier, trying to take him by surprise from behind. The gravel had been his undoing though, every crunch of the small rocks distinctive in the silence.

"Come any closer and I'll slit his throat." Frank yelled. "I swear I'll do it."

John stopped his pursuit. "Just let him go."

Frank kept moving, dragging the boy with him, until he reached the edge of the road. Already he could hear the sound of a car coming in their direction, and damn, he hoped it was his friend. Otherwise he was screwed, he thought, watching the man slowly advancing, matching him step for step.

"One more step and I'll do it!" Frank yelled, pushing the blade of the knife up and under the boy's chin until the kid's head tilted back under the pressure.

John stopped again, seeing Pastor Jim holding position at the edge of the parking lot, gun aimed and ready. Problem was, Sam was in the line of fire, held like a shield, and any shot taken by either of them risked hitting his son. He raised his own gun, and aimed at the man. It was all he could do – wait for an opening, any opportunity for taking a safe shot. Whatever happened, this pervert wasn't taking his son.

**-o-**

The car came to an abrupt stop beside Frank, gravel spinning under tires as the brakes were hit hard, driver leaning out the open window.

"What the hell Frank! I thought I told ya to leave the goddamn boy behind." Griff yelled out the window at his friend.

Frank dragged the boy towards the rear of the car. "Help me get him into the trunk."

Griff looked at the armed man standing in the middle of the parking lot, watching them, and he sunk down lower in his seat. "Christ almighty, this wasn't part of the deal, Frank. Ditch the damn kid or we'll have half the state chasing our tails."

"For Christ's sake Griff, stop your snivelling. Kid's our insurance policy. Now open the goddamn trunk." Frank demanded.

Griff watched as another armed man appeared, stepping out onto the road and pointing his gun straight at him. "Fuck you Frank." Griff yelled out the window, already deciding that he was way in over his head on this one. "I ain't taking the kid. This shit wasn't part of the deal."

Frank looked around, seeing the two armed men creeping slowly closer. The kid was like a dead weight as he dragged him back around the side of the car to the passenger door, putting the vehicle between himself and the armed men. He ducked instinctively as the first shot was fired, the bullet penetrating the side of the car. He yanked open the rear door, already feeling the car starting to move as Griff hit the accelerator. No goddamn way was Griff driving off and leaving him here, the spineless coward. He pushed the boy away and threw himself into the moving car, body sprawling across the back seat and legs hanging out the open door. His arms felt bereft, empty, but it was either him or the boy.

**-o-**

Sam felt the sudden release as his body was thrust towards the ground. His body cried out in agony and he tried to throw out his hands to break the impact. He felt the air leave his body as he hit the road, head meeting uncompromising asphalt.

He lay still on his stomach as he tried to catch his breath. He could hear the sounds of yelling and gunshots, but he couldn't move. His body was heavy, like a great weight was resting on top of him, keeping him plastered against the road. He let his eyes slip closed and welcomed unconsciousness.

**-o-**

John shoved his gun into his waistband as he sprinted the short distance across the parking lot to his son. He was sure that at least one of his shots had found its mark, but the car didn't slow down as it weaved its way down the road and away from the motel.

"Go check on Dean." He yelled to his friend, watching as Jim did an about turn and raced back towards the motel room.

He dropped down to his knees beside his son, reaching out to rest his hand on Sam's neck. He felt the beat of his pulse and let out a sigh of relief, unaware up until that point that he'd even been holding his breath. He pulled his hand away, his fingers stained with blood.

"Hey Sammy, can you hear me? You're safe now son, I got you, you're safe now." He ran his hands down his son's body, checking for further injuries before rolling him onto his back.

Sam's breaths were raspy and labored, and no amount of coaxing could entice his son to rouse. Scooping his arms under Sam, John lifted his son into his arms, cradling him against his chest, and strode back towards the motel room.

**-o-**

Pastor Jim held the phone receiver in one hand, keeping downward pressure on Dean's side with the other. He spoke quickly, short curt words conveying the necessary information. He dismissed the operator's instructions to stay on the line, tossing the phone to the floor and concentrating instead on stopping the flow of blood.

Dean was deathly pale, lying in a spreading pool of crimson. He kept the pressure on the wound, firm and steady, praying the ambulance would reach them in time.

**-o-**

John held his head in his hands, forehead carved with worry lines and body bowed with exhaustion. The last day felt as if it had been the longest twenty four hours of his life. Police and doctors had vied for his attention, demanding information and answers, when all he'd really wanted was to be with his sons.

He shifted in the hard plastic chair, trying to find a comfortable position, finally giving up and rising to his feet. His body was a mass of kinks and knots and he stretched, hoping to relieve a few of the aches and pains that racked his body. He looked down at his boys, both lying pale and still in their adjacent hospital beds, realising the insignificance of his own discomfort. Dean had nearly bled out back in the motel room, needing surgery to repair the stab wound in his side. It had been close, too close, he thought, knowing that for a while there it had been touch and go. He'd nearly lost his eldest son. And Sammy…he cast his eyes over to his youngest, taking in the bruises on his face, thinking of the hidden bandages, but knowing that Sam's injuries were more than just physical.

"John," why don't you go 'nd grab a few hours sleep. I'll watch the boys, call you if anything changes." Jim spoke quietly from his chair next to Sam's bed.

John shook his head. "No," he answered simply, dismissing the idea without giving it any thought. He wasn't leaving his boys.

"How 'bout some more coffee, then?" Jim asked, knowing he needed it himself just to keep awake.

"Sounds good. Black, extra strong." John smiled at his friend.

Jim chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet. "One cup of extra strong hospital sludge coming right up."

John watched his friend leave the room and let the mask on his emotions slip.

**-o-**

Days past, John was finally given the all clear to remove both boys from the hospital. Dean had been chaffing at the bit to get out of the sterile room, but Sam had remained sullen and withdrawn and try as he might, John wasn't able to reach him.

John looked down at the business card that had been handed to him along with the boys' release papers. A damn shrink? Like some stranger could know his son better than him. He crumpled the card up and tossed it in the bin.

"You boys ready to make a move?" John asked, entering the hospital room pushing a wheel chair.

Sam nodded.

"Damn straight." Dean replied, levering himself off the bed.

"Dean!" Pastor Jim chastised, following John in with a second wheel chair.

"Sorry." Dean muttered, leaning on his father, needing his help just to move from the bed to the chair. He was feeling ridiculously weak and even the smallest of moves caused him pain.

Jim pushed the chair towards Sam's bed, waiting for the youngest Winchester to make a move. "Your chariot awaits." Jim announced as he reached out to help Sam into the chair. Sam flinched away from the touch, breath quickening irrationally until he took a few forced deep breaths and swallowed down his fear. He met Jim's concerned eyes, reaching out and taking the offered help as he was eased off the bed and into the chair.

It was like a procession of the wounded as each boy was wheeled down the corridor and out of the hospital. John just wanted to get away from this town. Wanted to put some distance between them and the memories this town carried. Some down time at Pastor Jim's was what they needed. Time together. Time to heal.

John settled his sons into the back seat of the Impala and closed the doors. He glanced down at the newly replaced tire and felt his anger spike. He couldn't help the way his eyes swept around the parking lot and down the road, scanning faces and cars. Looking. Searching.

**-o-**

Sam leant his head against the cool window of the Impala, relishing being in the familiar space. He watched as the scenery sped by - as they put miles between themselves and the motel. He looked at the back of his father's head in the front seat, glancing in the rear-view mirror and catching his father's eye.

"You both okay back there Sammy?" John asked.

Sam looked at Dean, sleeping slumped against the other door. "Yes sir," he murmured.

He wanted to ask his dad what had happened. His thoughts were muddled and his recollection hazy. He wanted to know all the details, but he was afraid of the answers. He turned his eyes to look out the window again. Was the man out there somewhere, he wondered, feeling his skin crawl at the fragmented memory.

He bit his lip, looking in the rear-view mirror again. "Dad?" He whispered.

"Yeah, what is it son?" John asked, meeting Sam's eyes again.

"The man, the motel manager, what …where?" Sam stuttered, hoping his dad would know what he was asking without him having to voice the question. He held his breath as he watched his father in the mirror, waiting for an answer.

"Dead." John replied simply, noting the way the tension eased from Sam's slender frame at the blunt response. John pulled his gaze away from the mirror. "He's dead son."

**-o-**

John settled his boys into the spare room at Pastor Jim's, both sons exhausted after the short drive. Seeing the lines of pain on Sam and Dean's faces, he knew staying with his friend until the boys were up to travelling again was the right thing to do.

"You boys need anything?" John asked, looking between the two.

"No." Dean answered, Sam merely shaking his head.

Jim walked into the room and looked at the boys lying in the twin beds. It felt good to have the boys staying with him again; he just wished that the circumstances could have been better. Still, could have been worse, he reminded himself, counting his blessings.

"All settled?" He asked with a smile, pleased to hear words of affirmation from both boys.

Jim pulled his hand out from behind his back, showing the brightly wrapped parcel he'd been hiding. Walking over to Sam's bed, he perched on the edge, handing the parcel over to the youngest Winchester. "Now, I know it's been a few days since you birthday, but I was hanging on to this to give you when you visited again. Happy Birthday Sammy."

Sam held the gift, turning the wrapped parcel over in his hands.

"Well go on, open it." Jim prompted.

Sam tore the paper away, revealing a book written by one of his favorite authors. He'd been coveting the novel in local bookstores for months but had never had the money to buy it. "How did you know?" He whispered, running his hand over the hard cover.

"Saw you looking at it in the bookstore last time you were here. Pretty obvious you wanted that book Sam. Bought it when you weren't looking and put it aside. Was hoping you hadn't read it yet, but from your reaction I take it that I'm pretty safe on that account." Jim chuckled.

"No. I mean, how'd you know it was my birthday?" Sam looked at the Pastor with questioning eyes as he held the book in his lap.

"Date's up here." Jim grinned and tapped the side of his head with his finger. His smile faded as he watched a couple of tears roll down Sam's face. "Hey, no need for tears Sam." He leaned across and wiped them away with his fingers.

"I just thought… I just thought that no one remembered." Sam clutched the book to his chest. "Thank you. I love it."

"You're welcome Sam." Jim ruffled Sam's hair as he rose from the edge of the bed. "You boys try and get some rest while me and you dad fix us all something to eat."

Jim fixed his eyes on John as he stood, hoping the other man would follow his hint and follow him from the room. He wanted to tear into his friend, to remind him of how much he had; of how blessed he was. Of how easy it was to lose everything.

**-o-**

Sam leaned back against the pillows, holding the book tight, never wanting to let it go. Maybe his dad and Dean hadn't remembered, but it didn't seem to matter as much right now, because he hadn't been forgotten, not completely.

John's eyes darted between Jim's retreating back and Sam. New guilt washed over him and he felt about two inches tall as his failures mounted, one on top of another.

"I didn't forget Sammy, you know that. I just didn't realise the date and all." John looked at his son, waiting for some sort of reaction.

"You know we wouldn't forget Sam, not on purpose anyway." Dean piped in, the words feeling hollow because really there was no excuse. He felt like about the worst brother in the world right now. Not only had he let that pervert take Sam again, right out from under him, but he'd forgotten his little brother's birthday.

"It doesn't matter, really." Sam looked between his father and brother, a weak smile plastered on his face. He could see the guilt on their faces and wanted to shout at them for forgetting. He wanted them to know how angry it made him, how sad, but instead he held his emotions in. Hunting came first, before everything, he knew that. Nothing he could say would change that and the sooner he accepted things the way they were the easier things would be. He just needed to try harder, be better – maybe then they'd _see_ him.

"I'm tired." Sam whispered, closing his eyes.

"Sleep well." John spoke softly to both boys, turning towards the door. He knew he still had to face Pastor Jim's wrath – and over more than just Sam's birthday. He paused at the door, looking down at both his sons. They'd been through so much. Not just in the last few days, but for most of their short lives. Like everything else they had endured, they would get through this, together. They were Winchesters after all, and there were just some things they didn't speak about. It wasn't healthy, it wasn't normal, but it was the Winchester way.

**End.**

**Reviews are love.**


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